


Lest We Burden Our Weary Hearts

by CaveDwellers



Series: Every Breath in Defiance [1]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: But I promise the ship tag is there for a reason, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Communicative Adults, HEY PROFESSOR THIS IS WHAT YOU MEANT RIGHT, Hello I'm here to be Contrary, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mostly Canon Compliant, Pining, Your kokoro might end up a little brokoro, technically a slow burn, you can pry Sassy Legolas from my cold dead hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 70,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaveDwellers/pseuds/CaveDwellers
Summary: If one must call them ‘missed chances’, then do so warmly, for even in the distance of space and years there is no shortage of affection here. Each other’s dearest companion, indeed.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: Every Breath in Defiance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843123
Comments: 206
Kudos: 176





	1. TA 3019: Fangorn, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Please take note of the year and age at the beginning of each chapter. You'll see why as the fic goes on.
> 
> I also welcome feedback of any kind! Was there something you liked? Let me know! Something unclear, or something you wish could have been portrayed more strongly? Let me know! I do my best to write well, but my works are by no means perfect, and I would love to improve!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A contemplative stroll through Fangorn after almost witnessing the end of everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> Cover art for this story has generously been drawn by [Rhinocio!](https://instagram.com/Rhinocio/)

Third Age, Year 3019

If seeing the Glittering Caves leaves Legolas speechless and humbled, then touring through the ancient sprawl of Fangorn only loosens Gimli’s poetic tongue. His begrudging affection for forests and growing things began first in Lothlorien, by the grace of The Lady, and now?

“Don’t you see, Legolas? There is a glorious mathematics to the big trees of the world,” he waxes, gesturing to a squat and sprawling elm seemingly at random, but Legolas finds the goliath’s basic resemblance to the rectangular sturdiness of his companion’s people to be more than simple coincidence. You can take the dwarf out of the mountain…

“The unfurling of the fern, the teardrops of dew upon the tips of the leaves—the construction of the leaves themselves, how they bear weight! Now _that_ is something a dwarf can appreciate.” If Gimli thinks the way Legolas smiles and nods along is patronizing in any way, he is far too committed to his proverbial deluge to divert himself now. He nods in approval to the elm as they stroll past. “A good smith knows his arithmetic, my friend, and there is glory to be found in the precision that goes into crafting small machinations that hold several times their own weight.”

At this point Legolas receives a reproving whap on the leg with the back of the dwarf’s gauntleted hand. “Why didn’t you mention this to me before? I might not have scoffed so much!”

“Forgive me,” Legolas says, unable to help the mirth from seeping into his voice. He manages to keep his shoulders from bouncing so much as to be blatant, though, and to that he privately assigns himself a point of victory. “I had not realized opening your eyes to the beauty of growing things could be so simple.”

“Ach, save your courtliness for someone who believes it; I know you feel no remorse.”

Gimli can grouse in feigned insult with the best of them, and he is doing much to remind any who might be watching of this talent now. It is only because they have come to know each other so well these last several months that Legolas can see his companion doesn’t truly mean it.

“Alas,” Legolas says with a regretful shake of his head and a grin toying with the sides of his mouth. “I must confess, _mellon-nîn_ , remorse is the very last of my feelings in this moment.”

Gimli lets out a loud, dismissive “Bah!” that startles some birds off in the distance. The interwoven branches above their heads sway as if in response to a breeze, except wind cannot penetrate this deeply into Fangorn. The susurrus of the elm’s leaves against those of its neighbor( a beech), are not half as wary or threatening as at the start of their journey. Rather, it sounds to Legolas as though they, too, are giggling at his companion’s drastic change of heart.

And, really, who wouldn’t?

Gimli notices Legolas’ gaze flick to the forest’s reaction as the grin entirely overtakes his lips, and he thrusts his index finger in the air. “Not a word.”

The deep, dark set of his eyes are glinting like dew drops in the tender new light of the dawn, and the sunlight that manages to dapple through the canopy above their heads is tracing fanciful shapes on his helmet, drawing the gold and fire out of the thick strands of his beard. A year ago, Legolas never would have thought to find charm in such details; he would have scarcely noticed them at all. The last year he changed so much, he had started as a newborn.

Out of respect for Gimli’s request (such as it is), Legolas does not speak: He laughs. In all of his centuries, he cannot remember having laughed this much. Dwarven humor, as it turns out, suits him very well. Who would have thought?

He grins a little wider when he hears Gimli chuckle, too, low and sheepish. It is a delight to have a companion who knows how to laugh at himself.

Legolas brushes his fingertips along the wide, fuzzy leaves of a shrub as they pass by. It is tall and gangling, stretching for the same patches of sunlight splayed so whimsically over Gimli’s armor. They are not in the right season for it, but in the late summer its thin limbs would be bowing with the weight of dark, sweet berries.

“Do you ever wonder,” he muses aloud. “If the reason we are now so susceptible to the splendor of the other’s culture is from having stood on the precipice of the end of all things? Can it be credited to our survival? I do not know if your Glittering Caves would have stolen my voice as they did, if I had seen them before now.”

Gimli does not have an immediate answer. Instead, the silence he cultivates is thoughtful, and Legolas does not begrudge it to him. They walk along, and as they leave its circle of influence the branches of the elm creak as if waving farewell. The sound of Gimli’s footsteps, solid and heavy and strangely regular as they navigate a network of tree roots and nearly decomposed nurse logs, are the only rhythm to their travel.

“I could be glib, and point out that every other thing is beautiful after standing before the dark horror of Mordor and those accursed gates,” he says finally.

It would not be inaccurate, if he did. Nevertheless, Legolas suspects that is not why he is bringing it up.

“You could,” he agrees, light and conversational.

“And perhaps I would have, if we were having this conversation six months ago.”

It appears Legolas has not been the only introspective one today.

“I would have been shocked if you did not,” he says with a faintly teasing smile. “But now?”

“Aye, now it seems the wind has truly been taken out of my bellows,” Gimli says with a false air of sorrow. “Would that that lad could see me now.”

“Would he weep for how soft you’ve become, to befriend an Elf?”

Those dark eyes rise to glance at him, crinkled wryly at their edges. “There would be choice words, certainly.”

“Selected with artisanal care, I’m sure.”

A snort of amusement, and then Gimli’s gaze slides away, focusing instead on keeping his footing as they move steadily along. His companion has cloaked himself in an air of pensiveness, though whether he is puzzling over the answer to Legolas’ question or how to phrase it is unclear.

Neither, as it turns out.

“At the end of it all, I am not surprised to see myself changed—now, it seems inevitable that I would finally see the beauty of your forests,” he admits eventually. His words are low, nearly a murmur to himself. Legolas might have thought that the case, if Gimli had not chosen that moment to stop walking and regard him directly. “More, I find myself wondering if every Dwarf and Elf and Man must initiate a fight they know they cannot win for the slimmest chance of peace, in order to understand how precious it is; or if hearing tale that we have done it for them will be good enough.”

At first Legolas truly has no idea what to say. With a few simple sentences his companion has spoken multitudes, and the look he gives Legolas lets him know that each variant is true. Gimli Silvertongue, indeed.

He inclines his head with a small, enigmatic smile, assenting to a question his ears never heard. “As to that, _mellon-nîn_ , I do not know if there is enough augury in Middle-Earth to divine the answer we seek.”

Gimli’s sigh says everything he needs it to, and the weight of mistakes and ages past presses down on Legolas’ chest and shoulders. A dull ache develops behind his breastbone, and he can feel it settling in, preparing to make a home for itself there.

Aside from the Ents, and the trees that whisper in amusement of the changing hearts of dwarves, there is no one around for leagues. They can permit themselves a moment of amnesty and silence for a truth that took the end of all things to make itself known. And if their eyes meet, and brief smiles are exchanged, and for just a minute their love for every beautiful thing they went to war to protect does not come first, then they are the only two that will know.

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Gimli says, adjusting the weight over his shoulders and touching the small of Legolas’ back to get him moving again. His tone is not melancholic or reserved, it is companionable and warm. There is no fear in him, no trepidation; there is also no misconception. “If augury isn’t going to do it, I suppose we’ll just have to see for ourselves.”

Legolas smiles, and just before their respective gaits make it impossible to hold on, he reaches over and rests a hand on Gimli’s powerful shoulder. With a squeeze, he agrees, “I suppose we will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mellon-nin = my friend  
> mellon = friend
> 
> This fic was written primarily to change up the paint-by-numbers feeling I get from the Gigolas ship tag. As with most things I create, it has blown to much larger proportions than it should have, and now my cute heart-wrenchy oneshot requires multiple chapters. While I am here to be contrary and shake up the tag, if only a little, I take my pseudo-shitposting seriously, and as such I am going to do my best to make this as compelling as possible.
> 
> All of which is to say, I fell down several rabbit holes whilst doing research for this fic. That may or may not become apparent as you read on.


	2. TA 3019: Fangorn, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Fangorn is thoroughly enjoyed by just one member of our party, and some orcs are taught a rough lesson about stealing horses.

Third Age, Year 3019

Speaking with Legolas while the latter is simultaneously exploring a forest is an… interesting experience. He tends to flit around like a hummingbird, circling around the boles of trees and climbing their branches as he calls down his responses. He will also murmur them as he flattens himself onto his stomach to peer through the hollows of nurse logs, or observe the workings of insects up-close. There is nothing too large or too small to capture his fascination. Were it not for his keen ears and mulish determination to answer Gimli’s inquiries and remarks, regardless of where he might be, they might have spent the last several days without conversation at all.

“The proximity to Helm’s Deep had been a concern, initially, but I have already spoken with Èomer about that, and he has given me leave to use the land, in exchange for fortifying the stronghold. I would call it Aglarond,” Gimli says of the Glittering Caves. Just saying it aloud makes his blood thunder with anticipation. A part of him sorely wishes he and a hundred of his kinsmen were already there and working on them now. “They will be the jewel of the White Mountains!”

“Age-laround,” Legolas tries, his tone clearly thoughtful as he considers the vision being shared with him with the splendor he has already seen with his own good eyes. Gimli cannot see the elf’s face at the moment; he is scurrying along the branches of a sprawling, gnarled old tree, far higher than Gimli would ever comfortably climb.

“Aglarond,” Gimli says helpfully, even as he eyes the supple leather of his companion’s boots—currently, the only part of Legolas that is not obscured by plant matter. “You dinnae need to spend so much time at the front half of the word.”

There is a considering pause, and then the call comes down from the branches: “Say it again? I want to pronounce it properly.”

“Aglarond.” He drags the pronunciation out this time.

A rustle, and then, “Al-Garond?”

“No!” Gimli, who has been very patient with his companion’s linguistic incompetence up until this point, is not sure how much more of this he can take. “You’re saying it like an Elf, you daft creature!”

If he had spoken thus any earlier in their acquaintance, it might have rankled Legolas. Now, Legolas merely hangs upside down from the branch he has been standing on, and flashes Gimli a smirk of pointed amusement as a long sheet of straight blonde hair cascades prettily behind him.

“Gimli, I _am_ an Elf.”

Aye, and there is a smear of dirt across his cheek and nose and a bright green leaf caught in the weave of one of his braids to prove it.

Gimli retorts as though they are both standing on their own two feet like sane and normal people. “As such you should have the presence of mind not to attempt to speak another race’s language with your own accent!”

Legolas opens his mouth to retort, but then stops and seems to privately concede that his accent has been atrocious. He passes Gimli a small canvas sachet of nuts he has collected from the upper branches of the tree like a squirrel—and, with a small huff of defeat, Gimli grabs the bag.

“Perhaps I should have asked what language you have named it in at the outset,” Legolas concedes as his knees release their grip on the branch and tuck against his chest. He twists mid-air and lands neatly upon his feet, after which point he straightens up and accepts his sachet back from Gimli without further fanfare. Well, except to add, “Clearly, I have mistaken it.”

Somewhere between the dropping from the tree and the landing, he has dislodged the leaf and swiped the dirt from his face. Gimli is familiar with Legolas’ casual acrobatics at this point, and while they are showy they are not half as impressive as the attention to detail he shows in moments like this.

It is deeply entertaining to realize that his companion’s impeccable appearance is the result of frequent and subtle grooming instead of an innate Elven ability to repel filth.

Legolas’ admission gives Gimli pause, as well. He had not mentioned the Khuzdul influence in the name out of tradition and habit, and—while he will never say so aloud—he had also assumed that Legolas might intuitively understand, as he does with so much else. In hindsight, that had not been fair. How is Legolas supposed to instinctively know of the secret language of Dwarves, simply by virtue of knowing Gimli, even to the extent that he does?

“Right. Suppose that might help some,” he says gruffly, keeping his eyes fixed ahead at the brightness he can see beyond the edges of the trees. After the dappled, green-tinged sunlight he has grown used to these last several days, the unadulterated brightness before them is nearly alien to look upon. Fangorn is not like other forests, and it is certainly not like being underground, so until now Gimli has been relying on Legolas’ sense of direction. A private part of him has wondered if they might find their way out of this forest at all, though he supposes there are far worse fates than a lifetime with someone whose company you trust and enjoy, even if it is amongst the trees.

Legolas makes no effort to hide his soft sound of amusement at Gimli’s curmudgeonly tone. He begins to say something, his voice lilted in question—but before he can articulate the first word, he is interrupted by a furious braying that they both instantly recognize.

“Arod!” They both draw their weapons and break into a sprint.

The terrain of Fangorn is none too friendly for a warhorse, even one so loyal and adaptable as Arod. In lieu of attempting to guide the animal through the labyrinth of twisting and hidden roots, they had elected to hide his tack and saddle and leave him untethered to graze and forage as he would by a small stream. Legolas would hear nothing of Arod seizing upon his newfound freedom and bolting after a day or so, but Gimli had surreptitiously resigned himself to walking back to Erebor after the Fangorn leg of their journey was concluded. Even more surreptitiously, he had been a mite sad about it.

And yet, there was no mistaking that sound. Their horse had not bolted; he was merely in the process of being attacked or stolen. It is faint, but Gimli can see a large thrashing shadow amidst the alien brightness of the world outside of Fangorn Forest, waylaid by smaller bipedal shadows that shout and clack at one another in poor facsimile of language.

It figures this is how their peaceful exploration end, Gimli thinks as Legolas’ springy, long-legged strides quickly outpace him. The Dark Lord is dead and gone, and they _still_ cannot have more than a few days’ reprieve.

As soon as Legolas is close enough, the long bow of the Galadhrim begins to sing its somber, thrumming tune. Gimli pushes himself to run as fast as he dares with a bared axe in a semi-sentient forest. He will not allow Legolas to be overwhelmed, if he can help it—and, more importantly, he doesn’t want the elf to have all the fun of killing the bastards who thought to take Arod from them.

He has always laughed at Legolas’ insistences that Fangorn Forest has a greater understanding than he gives it credit for, and if it weren’t for the way he sees tree roots _part for him to pass_ Gimli might have decried those insistences as Elvish nonsense for the rest of his days.

As things are, he does not have the spare moments he would otherwise be wasting for shock and awe by this wholly unnatural occurrence. He simply mutters an oath of gratitude as he takes the change in stride—literally—and sprints onwards, his mail falling in a heavy, familiar rhythm over the width of his shoulders with every thunderous step.

“Nice of you to join us, Master Dwarf,” Legolas teases as he leaps onto a low-hanging branch and quickly dances out of reach of their opponents, leaving them for Gimli and his axes.

“I was waiting for you to draw them in, is all,” he retorts as he holds his favorite weapon at the ready.

It is far, far too bright outside of Fangorn, but Gimli does not let on that he is mostly blind as he recognizes the stench of orc.

There are quite a few of them, by the sounds of it. A wayward platoon?

A pitiful excuse for steel comes whistling through the air, darkened by too much heat and sloppy hammers wielded by those who care not for the craft. Gimli responds without bothering to use his vision, moving through feel and instinct to block, disarm, and decapitate his opponent—just in time for the next to engage him.

“One!” he calls.

“I remember when I had but one kill,” Legolas muses as an arrow crunches brutally into its mark. His victim gurgles as it keels over, dead. “Nine orcs ago.”

His eyes adjust to the vicious brightness of full daylight but slowly. It keeps him playing defense as he protests, “That is only because you had a head start!”

“Then I suggest you make up for your lack of time with increased ferocity, _mellon-nîn,”_ Legolas singsongs from his impromptu sniper’s nest. Another _whoosh_ of air, and a fleshy _pop_ , and another orc falls with an arrow sticking cleanly out of its eye. The elf laughs and easily leans to the side to dodge the pitifully smithed knife that one of the orcs has thrown at him in either frustration or desperation. The weapon sails harmlessly beyond, tumbling end over end. Clearly, it was never intended to be a throwing knife.

Gimli’s vision is markedly better now, and he begins to aggress towards Arod, who is still screaming and rearing at those unfortunate enough to come into range. Gimli takes down orcs two through five in this way, before he can properly see what is happening to his beast of burden.

The horse has been trapped between a large, furrowed trunk and a precarious mess of roots and small boulders. Gimli can see the whites of his eyes, the lather on his pale flanks. How long has this been going on?

“Gonna roast you over a nice big fire,” one of the orcs is saying in Westron, of all things.

“Just shut up and kill it already!” the orc’s companion replies. “I’m—”

Gimli calmly interrupts by liberating its head from its shoulders with one mighty swing of his axe. That would be six now.

“What did—” the orc with aspirations of roast horse is also promptly dispatched. Seven.

“Easy, boy,” Gimli says as more orcs see their chance and close in. “It’s just me, remember? The one you dinnae like driving? Be a good lad and try not to kick my head in while I keep this scum off you.”

He doesn’t check to see if his reassurances are working, and takes the risk of Arod mistaking him for another orc by turning his back and focusing on the real enemy. He is not bitten or stomped on, so he figures something must have worked, and doesn’t bother to check aside from confirming that Arod is, indeed, still behind him.

It would be hard to miss, with the poor beastie breathing so hard.

As he takes down orcs eight through thirteen, Gimli notes the markings on their uniforms. He does not recognize them. They are neither the white hand of Saruman, nor the burnt, ashy markings of Mordor proper. This crowd is certainly large enough to be a platoon, and their single-minded focus on Arod belies their hunger. A scouting party would have more provisions, or at least know how to survive off the land. Is this a wayward group that defected from their army? If so, where did they come from? Is it possible they do not know of Sauron’s demise?

Or, more likely, that this is the result of hundreds of thousands of orcs suddenly having no goals or leadership—or, it seems, proper means to provide for themselves.

No matter. They have attempted to eat the wrong horse, and that is all Gimli cares to know of them at this point.

“Aglarond?” he hears from somewhere above his head.

“That’s it!” he shouts in approval as he engages with orc number fourteen. “Now was that so hard?”

“Yes, because I still do not know the language!”

“Forgive me, Master Elf,” he growls as orc number fifteen dies by his hand. He can hear Arod’s anxious shifting behind him, and prays that the horse will not change his mind about turning on him now. “I found myself distracted!”

Legolas takes his time coming up with a response to that, and in the meanwhile Gimli adds orcs sixteen and seventeen to his tally.

“I cannot stop myself from replaying Samwise’s tales of the land between Minas Tirith and Minas Morgal,” he says at the last. His arrows spent, he leaps down from his branch and brandishes his twin knives in a single smooth motion that speaks of decades of drills. Now he and Gimli are fighting side by side. “He spoke of sweet-smelling herbs and swift streams and climbing woods,” he continues as he cuts down an orc that tries to take advantage of Gimli’s blind spot. “And I have not thought of it in centuries, but the more I think on it the more I recall. It was called Minas Ithil, once.”

“The sister city to Minas Tirith?” asks Gimli as he sweeps low with his axe, and Legolas goes high with his knives. Their opponents fall, and the next move up to take their place.

 _“Ithilien,”_ Legolas breathes, and Gimli can hear the longing in his tone, as familiar as his own for the Glittering Caves and everything he knows they can be. “It was prosperous and lovely, once. Made by men, but with an Elvish appreciation for the land.”

“You speak of it with a yearning. You should make it so again,” he says with conviction. “This is a new age of reconciliation; we have already seen so—and I distinctly recall Aragorn’s utter dismay that you would accept no gifts nor recognition for your part in the Fellowship. So, too, I recall Faramir’s apprehension at having to reclaim the entire province alone; all can see how the shadows of his father and brother cloud over him. Besides, who knows woods and streams and sweet herbs better than a Prince of the Greenwood?”

Legolas falls silent at that, and Gimli does not have the time to properly understand what his companion is not saying. All he knows is he can finally see an end to the orcs in this mysterious platoon, which is good because he is concerned for the way Arod is panting and whickering in distress behind them.

It is not until he has slain his final orc—number twenty-five—that he looks over to where Legolas has already approached Arod to begin the work of soothing the stallion. His companion is strangely disquieted.

“Have I offended?” he wonders.

“Nay,” he murmurs as he touches the sweaty neck of their poor horse, soft and soothing. Arod is twitchy, eyes still white and wide, ears flat against his skull. Legolas hums between breaks in his speech. “It is merely… it sounds so simple, when you say it.”

“Because it is,” he says. He starts to elaborate, but Legolas shakes his head. Arod’s nostrils are flaring, and there is still foam clinging to his flanks. Horses have been known to die from panic alone, and it is clear that Legolas would rather theirs not meet such a fate.

Gimli wouldn’t, either, as a point of fact, but he also lacks Legolas’ way with animals. There is not much by way of wild creatures within the mines of Dwarven cities. While Arod is soothed, he busies himself with dragging the bodies into a single horrid mound of wayward orc-flesh, recovering what arrows he can for Legolas while the other is preoccupied.

He counts, as he hauls, and counts again before he sets the pile aflame. Fifty bodies, and he with twenty-five to his count. It seems that he and Legolas are evenly matched again.

They will have to travel some ways to avoid the stench of this impromptu battleground—but, while they still have access to Fangorn and its water sources, it would behoove them to wash the gore from their equipment.

By the time Gimli approaches elf and horse to share his thoughts on this, he finds the horse calm and the elf pensive. Actually, Arod plods forward and knocks Gimli’s helm from his head as he snuffles into his hair and beard and leans against him in the closest approximation of a horse-hug Gimli has ever seen.

“There, there, beastie,” he mutters awkwardly as he pats the stallion’s cheek. “We were late, but you know we cannae let anything happen to you.”

It is a reward to hear Legolas laugh. “He is grateful that you defended him so well,” he tells Gimli with an oddly translational quality.

Gimli has never been able to determine whether Legolas can actually speak with horses, or if he simply uses his centuries of experience to anthropomorphize them.

“Aye, well, I am grateful he was here to defend, so I suppose it goes both ways.”

Arod continues this bizarre treatment until he takes an experimental bite of one of Gimli’s braids, and then Gimli is shoving the animal away with a disgruntled cry.

Legolas laughs a little more, and then says exactly what is on Gimli’s mind. “The day is not as young as it was, but there is still enough time to clean up and make camp far from here. What say you, _mellon?”_

They have spent far too much time together, it seems.

Gimli does not bother to explain his smile of amusement as he agrees, and it is not until they are scrubbing the filth of that platoon from their equipment that Legolas addresses the lingering question of why Gimli’s earlier suggestion made him to falter so.

“I am a second son,” he says to the water flowing before them. The stream is modest, insofar as waterways go, but the water is cool and clean, and they do not need much to wash their equipment and fill their travel skins, so for their purposes it is all they need. “There has never been an expectation for me to rule in any meaningful way, for Eren Lasgalen already has an heir.” He does not look upset; if there was ever a wound caused by the line of succession in his father’s realm, it has long since scarred over. Rather, he seems a little lost. “I did not recognize how utterly I had relegated myself to a support role until you said…”

“Until I said you should lead like it was nothing,” Gimli realizes. He looks at his companion with new eyes, his hands stilling in the cool water as he holds his gore-splattered gauntlet under.

“Yes.” Legolas’ voice is soft and faraway with contemplation. Though the blue of his eyes are still trained on the arrowhead he is washing off, he seems to see none of it.

Gimli lets him have a moment or two to adjust to this new perspective, and then he makes a splash as he yanks his gauntlet from the stream.

“If ever there was an opportunity to prove your resourcefulness, cunning, resilience, and—” here he looks pointedly at the easy atmosphere between them “—your willingness to forge alliances for a greater good, would it not be a quest such as ours? Have you not already demonstrated yourself more than capable?” He retrieves his breast plate and dunks it into the gently flowing water. “Do not sell yourself short, lad. Few are better positioned to execute the task you have named, and I think you would know that if you took the time to consider it.”

Legolas does not startle at his sudden movements. He also does not react to what Gimli is saying. He does not rush to bring himself back to the present moment, though when he does it is with a slow blink and a twitch of his long fingers. The arrowhead has long since been washed clean. He withdraws it from the stream as he lifts his head to meet Gimli’s expectant gaze. Elves do not sleep as mortals do, but Legolas still appears as one struggling to pull himself from heavy slumber.

There again, shrugging off several lifetimes’ worth of underutilization and complacency is no small feat, either.

“Well?” asks Gimli. “Will you admit to seeing sense, or is your head still too far up your skinny arse that you cannae hear me?”

Legolas laughs, as he is meant to, and Gimli grins for the simple joy hearing it. Elves do not laugh enough, as a general rule, and Legolas’ mirth in particular is a gift that Gimli shall never tire of receiving.

“Ah, I can see what a formidable Lord of Aglarond you shall become!” he cries, waving his newly clean arrow and sending a spray of water droplets into the air. “Woe be unto those who dare to contest your will.”

For all that Gimli has yet to confirm the language Aglarond’s name is derived from, Legolas pronounces it perfectly, and Gimli has a sense that he shall never mispronounce it again. There is something inexplicably warming about this demonstration of commitment to a place that does not yet exist.

“Yourself included?” asks Gimli. He does not care that the question is leading.

This earns him a glance of wry knowing. Legolas nonetheless replies, “Indeed, even I find myself compelled by your arguments.” His smile is a little uncertain, still adjusting to this new outlook on his own person, but genuine and tentatively excited for all of that. “It is difficult to maintain doubt while being championed with such alacrity.”

“And you’ll find me making no apologies for that,” Gimli says, cheerfully pulling his chest plate from the water.

There is a very undignified snort, and Gimli does not miss the air of confidence his encouragement is gradually strengthening. “Of course not,” Legolas says with resigned affection. “It would not behoove the burgeoning Lord to begin his career with a lie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I saw some other shitposts about Legolas being a derpy forest boi and knew in my heart I had to do it, too.


	3. TA 3019: Fangorn, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some wayward orcs and a lot of banter and maybe a heart-twinge at the end.

“Are these bastards everywhere, or are we just beacons of good luck, do you think?” asks Gimli as he once more swings his axes amongst a crowd of orcs. These ones are even hungrier and more desperate than the platoon that tried to eat Arod outside of Fangorn, and it shows in the sloppiness of their attacks. Gimli is dispatching them with far greater speed and efficacy than ever before, and it is not because his skills have changed overmuch since the Battle of the Morannon.

This skirmish is taking place along a low, flat floodplain, dotted with young willows and cottonwoods and low-lying shrubs. Though the landscape suits Gimli just fine, it is less than ideal for an archer. Even fighting atop Arod with Gimli keeping a radius around them had not been as effective as they might have hoped; things are still too close.

Gimli can see that Legolas is once more running low on arrows, as well. His companion is a responsible archer, but it is impossible to expect every arrow to be recovered after every run-in with these packs of wayward orcs, and as such Legolas’ weapon of choice is providing diminishing returns.

Nevertheless, the elf laughs as he lightly dismounts and draws his knives. “That is entirely a matter of perspective,” he replies as Gimli takes down an orc and Legolas surprises the one right behind it by killing it, too. The fact they are both fighting for their lives does not register in his tone, which remains light and casual. “One could argue that all of this impromptu practice is keeping us from going soft, and that is fortunate, in its way.”

Translation: based on what Legolas’ far-reaching gaze has discerned, the rest of their journey towards the Greenwood and Erebor is going to play out similarly to this, so Gimli had best get used to it.

“Oh, aye, and when were you planning to mention that the lands are crawling with a disbanded army?” he grumbles as the blade of his axe rips through the air, killing two orcs at once. This rare feat has him temporarily forgetting his complaints and instead whooping in surprise and delight. “Two for one! Very satisfying, that. Brings me right up to ten.”

“Eleven for me,” Legolas grunts as he dispatches an orc with a very impressive dual slash of his curved knives. “It shall be another close tally, I believe.”

“Isn’t it always?” Gimli hears Arod’s snort of alarm, and whirls around to take the knees out from under a particularly tall orc before it can touch the stallion. He slashes its throat as his axe hisses through the air on its way to cutting down number twelve.

“As I was saying,” he continues as orc number twelve dies. “You do not seem surprised that we are slowly spearing our way through what appears to be the remnants of an army.”

There is mirth in Legolas’ voice as he quips, “I was merely waiting for the stunning intellect of the Dwarves to assert itself.” One knife slices in a diagonal arc down, and the other thrusts up, and in doing so Legolas kills one orc and blocks the blow of another. As he engages with the orc he just blocked, he says more seriously, “The shape of the land prevents me from being able to confirm it, but I fear our respective Kingdoms have been conducting their own battles whilst we have been fighting ours. I do not recognize these uniforms, and these numbers do not bode well.”

“Agreed,” Gimli says grimly, even as he sends an orc head in a spectacular spiral through the air. “These creatures are half-wild with hunger and listlessness—they know not what to do, now that the Dark Lord is gone.”

“It shall be months before they are all fled or eradicated from these lands, if not years.” Legolas flips casually over Arod’s back to address a threat closing in from that side. In short order, a particularly wet gurgle belies the fate of his quarry.

“And here I was, thinking the fun would soon be over!” says Gimli while he adds orc number fourteen to his tally.

“More fool, you!” comes the retort, and he does not need to hear Legolas’ grin to know it is there. “That’s seventeen to me, _mellon_. Are you keeping pace?”

Gimli he takes down orc fifteen as he barks out, “You sound winded! Perhaps the delicate elf needs a break to fix his braids?”

“So I am ahead, then,” Legolas surmises with a chuckle far too bright and merry to properly befit their circumstances. “Do not worry, Gimli, I shall not brag of my victory too loudly.”

Gimli cannot help but chuckle to himself as orc sixteen falls. If it be his fate to spend an extra week or two battling his way to the Lonely Mountain like this—well, he could certainly do worse.

**.:;;:.**

The going is slow, and made slower by unnecessarily frequent camps to recuperate from minor injuries as well as the labor of the deadly swaths they carve through leaderless packs of orcs roving the landscape. Nevertheless, they make progress, bantering and competing as they go.

They travel around the edge of the Greenwood instead of through it, though there is no economy in doing so. The closer they come to the borders of their two lands, the quieter each becomes. Even Arod seems to sense it. The beast nudges at Gimli often, as though already understanding that he cannot come to Erebor. The inside of a mountain is no place for a noble horse from the plains of Rohan, and Arod will be happier in the Greenwood.

However, if Arod understands that there will be a separation, there is no way he might understand why it is necessary, and no amount of horse whispering on Legolas’ part can instill such levels of nuance.

And then it is time. They cannot skirt about the Greenwood any more without circling all the way around it, and for as many times as they have gone out of their way over the course of this journey there is no reason for doing that which might hold up under scrutiny. They cannot delay their parting any longer.

Gimli slides off Arod and drops to his feet with a thud. He adjusts his pack, squints up through the midmorning sunlight at the person he has come to know so well these last several months.

Legolas is looking back, eyes soft enough to cause something in Gimli’s chest to squeeze. He is thinking of augury, and how there is not enough of it in Arda to show them what this new Age has in store. They have not come across any friendly faces in their travels to gauge the moods of their fellows, or indeed to know how Sauron’s defeat has impacted their homes and people since their departure from Gondor several weeks past. They have been incredibly lucky, to survive as well as they have. That luck may yet hold.

They have not yet spoken to one another today, but Gimli does not need to hear Legolas’ voice to ken that he is having the same considerations.

Of course, the only way to begin is to travel to their respective realms to determine what augury cannot.

Legolas reaches out to clasp his arm, and Gimli reciprocates with vigor and affection.

“Write to me, so that I know you have arrived safely,” the elf says meaningfully.

“And you, before you leave for Ithilien,” says the dwarf. “Perhaps the timing shall coincide with my own departure for Aglarond, and we shall travel together again for a time, for nostalgia’s sake.”

A slow smile falls upon his companion’s lips, touched at his faith and pleased by the rest. “I would like that very much.”

They do not have anything more to say to each other. At this point, anything else would be redundant.

The inevitable may only be delayed so long.

Gimli initiates the release of the other’s arm, and Legolas follows suit. “Alright, beastie,” he says to Arod, giving the horse a fond pat on the neck and tolerating one final equivalent of a horse’s hug. “You behave now, understand? Do everything you can to keep this elf on his toes, just as I would.”

“I do not recall a single moment in which I have needed to stretch onto my toes, when my only company of late has scarcely come up to my sternum,” Legolas deadpans pointedly. “If anything, I have spent more time on the ground than I have in centuries, trying in vain to establish eye contact with a growling, hairy bush.”

“That’s precisely what he would have you think,” Gimli tells Arod gravely. He gives the horse’s pale, velvety muzzle one final pat. “Dinnae let his bluster fool you, he likes it.”

Arod snorts, and one could almost take it for an expression of equine agreement. It is good enough for Gimli.

Gimli glances over at those blue eyes he has come to know so well, for the final time, and with a smile he raises one large, square palm in the universal gesture of amiable departure.

“Fare well, _mellon-nîn,”_ Legolas says, and there is something to the way he pronounces those words that feels like he is saying something else entirely. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

Gimli nods, unable to find the words to respond any other way, and that is that. The dwarf rounds his shoulders towards the Lonely Mountain, and the elf angles the horse to the heart of the forest, each with a lingering warmth about him.

Neither look back.


	4. TA 3019: Coming Home to Greenwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Homecoming and introspection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic I will be using Greenwood and Eren Lasgalen interchangeably as the 'proper' names for the region, and Mirkwood as a more derogatory term--pointedly bringing attention to the way the forest was impacted by Sauron. It isn't quite canon-compliant, but hopefully it won't trip you up too much.
> 
> I treat Lorien and Lothlorien in a similarly interchangeable fashion.

Third Age, Year 3019

Lothlorien is the epitome of Elvish elegance. For all of the grief he and the rest of the Fellowship felt when they crossed its borders—and for all the shame and fury that charred him at having to be _blindfolded_ —Legolas cannot help but look upon his time there amongst the tall, graceful limbs and diffuse sunlight and the shining laughter of the Nimrodel as some of the most awed and humbled of his long life. Lorien is tame, docile and inviting. It is the oldest and most perfect bonsai tree, lovingly nurtured over long millennia; it is everything its masters dreamed for it to be. Lorien is evidence that his people have not entirely given up on Middle-Earth—and nothing, but nothing, can match the cultivated grace and perfectly flowing lines of the Galadhrim’s architecture. It is, Legolas thinks, the closest he has ever come to the peace and glory of Aman.

Small wonder Gimli was so captivated by The Lady, truly. As an Elf, Legolas had been able to see through some of the more ethereal showmanship, but he had still been cowed by the sheer weight and glory of her presence as much as any of the Nine Walkers.

Fangorn is a different epitome entirely. If Arda were to have _f_ _ëa_ in and of itself, then Fangorn is its _hr_ _öa_ made manifest. It is ancient and chaotic and knowing, and Legolas has seen it lash out like a wounded thing, vicious and scared. There are no sinuous, sweeping lines in Fangorn; it claims no majesty—and yet, the land thrums with a heartbeat all its own, and is there not a compelling majesty in that? Fangorn is a grizzled warrior that has seen too much of the hardships of this life, but Legolas has seen it laugh with gentle movements, has slept in the moss nestled between gnarled old roots and known no fear. Fangorn has been hurt and betrayed, many times, and it has fought back many more times than that. It knows how to heal, though, and that is no small thing.

It is the resilience of Fangorn, more than Samwise’s descriptions, that turns Legolas’ heartmind to Ithilien. If Fangorn cannot be broken of its will to survive and heal and laugh again, then nothing else in Arda is so far gone, nothing at all.

And, perhaps, if he can revitalize Ithilien with peace and kindness, maybe the acrid, smoking crater that once festered with Sauron’s toxicity might be able to take heed, as well.

Maybe.

It is these arguments that Legolas is thinking of, these illustrations of his experiences along this desperate quest he has somehow survived, that he hopes to weave into a tale his father would hear with an open heart. He does not have Gimli’s gift for words, and in truth he thinks he might have explained himself best when sharing his ambitions with his Dwarven companion, so confident was he of being heard without hostility. He is so changed from this journey, such a very different elf than he was when he first left for Rivendell—will he and Father know how to speak to one another, still? Will their words be as a raven and a starling sitting on the same branch, singing songs too vastly different for the other to understand?

All of his wonderings fall utterly, auspiciously silent as he and Arod stand before the border of Eren Lasgalen.

Legolas moves without thinking, swinging his leg over the proud beast’s back and dropping soundlessly onto the soft loam.

If Lothlorien is everything tamed and lovely, and Fangorn is everything wild and healing, then what is the Great Greenwood but all and none of that at once? Eren Lasgalen is not so perfectly sculpted as Lothlorien; it lives and breathes as something newer and freer than that, as a youth on the cusp of understanding that comes with reaching their majority. Full of potential, a little fey, vivacious in its personality. So, too, is Eren Lasgalen not as besieged as Fangorn, yet Legolas can see that its time as _Mirkwood_ has left deep scars. It is no longer immune to the sorrows of maturity, if it ever was.

Legolas leads Arod under the playful shadow of the Greenwood’s canopy, and the sunlight here is so much stronger than Fangorn, not quite so gobbled up by the uppermost leaves of its most behemoth trees. Old sprays from the firs bend under his weight, and they do not break. The fragile, papery flesh of discarded maple leaves larger than his fully extended hand crumple without tearing.

All around him, the trees are humming in recognition, welcoming him back. Legolas touches the thin, moss-covered bark of the maple and hums back.

The moss is beginning to grow over a slash that was made in the trunk by one of the spiders. Legolas sings softly in acknowledgement of this recent hurt as his fingers trace around the edges of it, and he feels the maple singing back, telling tale of healing and resilience.

The song resonates with him as familiar, as something he himself has come to know and understand only too well.

Perhaps that is it, then. Perhaps it is that Eren Lasgalen feels like him, and vice versa.

He is not surprised when his singing attracts the attention of his kin patrolling the perimeter, or that—after their initial cries of recognition and delight—they take a second look upon him as though they do not understand what is different. It is true that Legolas looks as he did when he left. He has a new cloak, a new horse, a new bow—but the core of his features, his face and his shape, they are all the same. Unaltered by everything he has lived through. He has not even changed the way he plaits his hair.

Is that one of the things that makes the Gift of Men so worthwhile, that others can see the evidence of where you have been and what you have survived play out upon your person?

Legolas traces the healing scar on the big leaf maple, thoughtful.

“Your father and brother will be delighted to hear of your return!” his kin say, and he can tell they believe it. “Would you like an escort, Prince?”

 _Prince._ That is right. He has kept the company of Kings and Wizards for so long that the significance of his own rank and title has nearly faded to nonexistence, and his people have remembered where he has not.

His people. Hm. The concept does not feel as it once had.

Legolas smiles without betraying any of his thoughts. His hand falls from the tree, empty at his side. “That is not necessary, though I thank you for the offer. I think I will surprise them, if I can.”

They do not question his motives or his wisdom, merely make their acquiescence known and resume their patrols. Beside him, Arod snorts contentedly around the leaves of the young sapling he is currently eating.

He does not know why he expects words of teasing or challenge from his other side, when the only one who might do that has already been sent on his way. The gentle ache nestled behind his ribs pulses once, as though in reminder, and Legolas does not give in to the urge to glance beyond the perimeter of the Greenwood. Instead, he nudges Arod into motion and guides the stallion deeper into his home.

If Lothlorien is proof of Elvenkind’s skill in perfect circumstances, and Fangorn is the result of Arda doing what she will…

He does not encounter his older brother as he navigates the familiar trees and their fresh scars—clear signs that the Greenwood has been impacted by the War of the Ring, as all other places—and brings Arod to stable. Thalion must be conducting some of the patrols himself, then; Legolas can ken no other reason for his absence.

Have their numbers dwindled so much, or are the remnants of the enemy still so numerous amongst the trees? Legolas cannot say.

As for his father, he is precisely where Legolas expects to find him. Thranduil is in his study, methodically scouring trade invoices, a glass of deep purple wine at his elbow. The Elvenking of Eren Lasgalen glances up when Legolas’ form appears in the doorway, and it takes a second for the recognition to properly dawn upon him.

“Legolas!” He instantly abandons his paperwork in favor of embracing his youngest son in an exceedingly rare show of outward affection. Legolas returns the embrace eagerly. The familiar shape and scent of his father is, in this moment, one of the most comforting and nostalgic things Legolas has ever known. In the blink of an eye he is a child again, sweaty and winded and beaming with triumph from winning his first archery competition, nearly lost in his much taller sire’s long limbs as they coil around him.

And then he is in his proper time once more, and it has been centuries since Thranduil was this affectionate, and Legolas hangs on for all he is worth. He has so missed this, this good and solid embrace of family.

He spares a thought for the discussions he and Gimli held in Fangorn, about the way overcoming impossible odds may change people. Has his father also stood on the precipice of the end of all things, or is he merely reacting because Legolas has?

“When we received word from Minas Tirith that Elessar was crowned King, I knew your homecoming was imminent, but I had no way of knowing when it would be,” Thranduil says into the crook of his shoulder. He draws back and clasps Legolas’ cheeks, peering at him with shining pride and relief. His typically aloof father’s utter lack of reservation might have been astounding, in any other circumstances; now, it gives Legolas hope.

As soon as he really sees Legolas’ eyes, the happiness leeches from him as water from a cracked glass. Now Thranduil is clasping Legolas’ cheeks as though the very act of doing so might keep him in Eren Lasgalen until the breaking of Arda itself.

“Oh, _ion nîn,”_ he sighs, and his gaze is so, so sad and ancient. The pad of his thumb brushes over Legolas’ cheekbone like the faintest of breezes. “Have you come home, only to tell me that you will be setting sail, as your mother before you?”

Legolas blinks, for in fact he might have sworn his father would notice the other longing first. His yearning for the Sea is one he has already resolved to ignore for as long as he can, has already shunted it as far from his thoughts as it may go. The pull of the Sea is a constant he has already grown used to, has already found ways to sidestep—so much so that he has nearly forgotten it is something he feels, most days. He has not quite gotten to that point with the other, although it is only a matter of time.

“Nay, _Ada,”_ he says, reaching up and grasping comforting fingers around his father’s shoulder. “There will be no sailing for me—not for a long while yet. Not while there is still so much to do!”

Thranduil is equal parts pleased and bewildered. Slowly, his hands slide from Legolas’ cheeks, and he peers at his youngest as though only now fully realizing the transformation that has happened within his ever-same skin. “I agree, though I sense now that we have different reasons,” he says slowly. He navigates back to his desk and gestures for Legolas to join him with a flick of his fingers.

As Legolas obliges, he is unsurprised to receive his own glass of wine. Dorwinian diplomacy, Thalion likes to call it. This is their father’s classic social standby, applicable to everything from subtle courtly interrogations to, apparently, discussions about his youngest son’s thirteen-month absence.

It seems there are some habits that cannot be broken, even by the miraculous thwarting of the end of all things.

“I certainly do not know the whole tale of your Fellowship,” Thranduil allows as he retrieves his own glass and swirls the dark liquid inside. “But I know enough of it to understand that you have traveled from one end of Arda to the next, installing Kings and liberating peoples along the way. I know you have done many great deeds, Legolas, and all of them have reinforced not only your good name, but that of your people. What improvement can you make to a legacy that includes the destruction of the One Ring?”

To this Legolas cannot help but smile as he sips upon the sweet, dark wine. “One can always improve upon legacy, _Adar.”_

The answer is as accurate as he can make it without delving into detail, and in truth he is using it as a gauge of Thranduil’s openness. If ever there was one irrevocably set in his ways, it is his father—but Legolas entertains the hope that this is not so. At least, not entirely; not any longer.

“And I have just stated I know not how this may be done,” Thranduil reiterates with a touch of cool annoyance. He levels a narrow-eyed glance at Legolas over the wine and parchment and softly buffed blonde wood separating them. “Explain.”

Legolas might have guessed that his father would desire greater specificity.

“I… sense in my soul that Middle-Earth has something for me, yet,” he says carefully. “And I would see it through to the end.”

His father’s face is an implacable mask as he awaits further embellishment. When Legolas does not immediately rally, he offers only an expectant, “Oh?”

“If the Fellowship of the Ring has demonstrated anything, it is the power of unity. The diversity of talent inherent in Elves, Dwarves, Men and Hobbits—and our ability to work together—is the primary contributor to our success,” Legolas says. He is trying to channel the same level of conviction he heard from Gimli in Fangorn, that unshakable faith in his statement. For all that Legolas’ status and education make him a diplomat in his own right, his skills have been underutilized over the centuries; it is time for that to change.

“Certainly, I do not believe there is any further question as to the valor of Hobbits. They are capable of extraordinary feats, particularly when supported by a host of Elves and Men,” Thranduil replies. His tone is flat and diplomatic, but his eyes have the same steely glint that Legolas has seen directed countless times towards others. He senses there is something Legolas is not saying, and he has set himself to the business of extracting it.

His omission of the virtues of Dwarves, even in a supportive role, also does not go unnoticed. He is not taunting Legolas with it, because to do so would require knowledge of how close his son has become with a Dwarf—knowledge he does not seem to have—but the lack of reference hangs conspicuously in the air all the same.

Instead of addressing it directly, Legolas says, “I believe there is merit in the continued cooperation of all Free Peoples, and I would dedicate myself to strengthening these bonds.”

If Thranduil registers the double entendre, then he does not show it. Instead he redirects his gaze to something just over Legolas’ shoulder and takes several moments to swirl his wine, ostensibly considering every angle of this proposal. He sups of the dark liquid, unhurried. Is he attempting to make Legolas squirm like a guilty child that has stolen sweets from the kitchens, or is this simply how King Thranduil, the politician, conducts his business?

Now, more than ever, Legolas wishes he had listened more to Thalion’s discussions of court proceedings.

When Thranduil’s gaze meets his son’s once more, it is with all the force of an arrow crunching through flimsy armor. “I do see benefit in properly cultivating a warm relationship with Gondor, particularly if her new King is all the reports claim him to be,” he says. “As for the Hobbits, this will require research. Do they have a monarchy, or any goods worth exporting? How might a formal relationship with them function? Are these answers you already have, Legolas?”

Again, he omits the Dwarves. Erebor is the Greenwood’s closest neighbor, and Legolas knows that any reports of the Fellowship would have contained all of their names and places of origin. Yet his father pointedly speaks nothing of bettering the wary tolerance their two realms have maintained for the last sixty years.

“I do not,” he admits. “Perhaps that is a project best tended to after our relations with Gondor and Erebor have been sufficiently polished.”

Now Thranduil does tilt his chin up in suspicion. It is a very slight movement, and yet Legolas takes keen note of it, because it is also punctuated by a delicate tap of glass on wood as his father sets his wine down. The steely blue of his gaze glitters as he says, “Relations with Erebor are of little consequence, for there is nothing to be gained from it. It is Gondor that piques my interest. Since you seem so impassioned, I trust you have some ideas?”

Legolas’ heart falls as he hears the unspoken truth behind his father’s words. The cornerstones of this conversation have been set, and the Dwarves have been pointedly excluded.

Giving open affection to the son who survived an impossible quest is one matter; being so moved by the impossible as to even _consider_ soothing ancient racial feuds is another matter entirely. The end of all things, as it turns out, has finite influence.

What Legolas wishes for cannot happen all at once. One cannot treat the relocation of a mountain the way one treats the removal of a large boulder, and it is becoming increasingly clear that attempting to force the process along faster would be the same as doing no good at all. Change this profound must be incremental, completed over the course of generations. Legolas can do his part by initiating the task, and perhaps—if he is fortunate—then it may be completed by the end of his long life. But it cannot be completed today, and those who are as set in their ways as Thranduil shall never raise a hand to assist.

As this understanding truly begins to take root with him, digging in painfully deep, Legolas feels the ache in his chest sink deep into his bones to become an integral part of his person. Another transformation that none shall ever see.

Though he had suspected his hopes for a second impossible victory were too lofty, having those suspicions confirmed with such merciless finality does not diminish the hurt the assertions leave in their wake.

However, Legolas is not so stricken that he cannot see the perfect opportunity his father has given him for his second aspiration. With the cornerstones so set, he may yet be able to build something, and with Gimli’s doughty confidence still echoing through his thoughts he is determined to try.

“Do you recall the land between Minas Tirith and Minas Morgul that was once known as Ithilien…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very roughly:  
> Fea = soul  
> hroa = body  
> From what I understand, these terms aren't typically used outside of the Elven experience, but it felt appropriate for Legolas to see the world through this lens, so to speak.
> 
> Also, I do not think Thranduil is a complete raging gasbag. Hopefully this portrayal of him softens the perspectives of those who are still on the fence, if only a little.


	5. TA 3019: Homecoming to Erebor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erebor is much changed, and also not changed enough. Gimli learns the hard way.

Third Age, Year 3019: The Lonely Mountain of Erebor

To claim Gimli is relieved to be amongst his kin again is to greatly understate the notion. The last several months he has grown accustomed to over-explaining himself and allowing slights made in ignorance to roll off his shoulders, to eating at tables built to suit the proportions of races not his own and speaking exclusively in Westron. He has accepted that he will be the shortest and most misunderstood in any given room. For all these handicaps to suddenly be _gone_ is a victory so sweet it nearly puts a tear to his eye.

Which is not to say that his homecoming has been without drawback. Whilst Gimli has been slaying orcs and acting as an impromptu ambassador of his people, Erebor has suffered months of grueling siege at the hand of thousands of the same enemies Gimli has been fighting on the road. News that reached Gondor detailed that only reason she has survived is due to her dragon-forged alliance with the Men of Dale and good old fashioned Dwarven endurance. The same news also noted that Erebor has a new King Under the Mountain, the son of Dáin Ironfoot, Thorin III Stonehelm.

Dáin is not the only soul to have fallen during the siege, of course. Dale also has a new King, and there are many other losses besides, Men and Dwarf alike. The numbers reported to Gondor are not catastrophic, but they are enough that Gimli thought himself well-prepared to face them.

He was not.

Of the fabled Company of Thorin Oakenshield—heroes who won Erebor back from Smaug, Dwarves who have been beloved surrogate-uncles and teachers to Gimli in his youth—only his father and Dwalin remain. The emotional blow is as staggering as the one he sustained in Khazad-dȗm, the one thing he had not prepared for. His two older sisters and their children have survived, though, as has his father, and that is a powerful comfort—but knowledge of one does not negate the reality of the other, and Gimli once more finds himself in the bitter throes of grief.

No one is surprised when he confirms the fate of those who braved Moria, really. He can see those last tiny vestiges of hope break behind the eyes of those he tells about it, though, and it is that which wounds him the most.

He has seen enough of war to know that peace is rarely won at a fair price, and he understands what happened to the colony in Khazad-dȗm is a separate matter entirely. Nevertheless, this news feels so much like adding insult to injury, and Gimli resents being the bearer of it instead of being grateful he has kin left to share his dark tidings with at all.

His people are equally unsurprised to hear that Sauron’s defeat is not credited to the desperate final stand of Men and Elves (and Gimli) at the Black Gates, but the acts of two tenacious Hobbits. ‘Twas a Hobbit who made the difference for Erebor, after all; why not the Dark Lord as well?

Between the powerfully bittersweet homecoming and the assistance he provides in addressing Erebor’s most pressing issues of structural repair and food acquisition, it is weeks before Gimli is able to notice aught else, much less recall his aspirations for the Glittering Caves long enough to bring the idea and Èomer’s letter to the Stonehelm’s attention.

“Son of Glóin, what makes you think Erebor can spare any Dwarves for a new colony?” asks the new King Under the Mountain. They are not in the opulent throne room, but rather one of the largest war rooms and surrounded by a hubbub of advisors, financiers and architects. The Stonehelm wears his crown, and no royal finery beyond that; he claims he has no time for such frippery when he has an entire bloody civilization to rebuild—"Now, if you are done making an ass of yourself, Mahal gave you two good hands. Put them to work.”

Thorin III is far more somber and carefully spoken than the Dwarf he succeeded, but when he speaks like that there is no question as to who raised him. Gimli had not the opportunity to know the late Ironfoot with true depth, but based on Glóin’s stories he rather thinks Thorin III’s father would be proud.

“Because doing so would be immensely profitable,” Gimli replies.

The Stonehelm gestures about them. “I _have_ gold, Gimli. There are more riches in this mountain than a single Dwarf could hope to collect or spend in their entire life. What I lack is Dwarves, and a way to keep the precious few I do have fed for the winter. Can your colony help me with that?”

“The Glittering Caves do, indeed, contain many riches,” Gimli says, unruffled by the edge in his King’s tone. Once one has faced the Eye of Sauron and the unholy hordes of his lands, very little else registers as intimidating. “However, that is not the profit I am referring to.”

The King Under the Mountain’s stare is almost baleful. As Gimli holds no fear his King’s wrath, so too does Thorin make no effort to curb his honesty. To that end, their relationship is genuine and immensely productive, if rough to look upon at times.

“Explain,” he says, and kicks out the empty chair beside him. As Gimli complies, Thorin scrubs his hand over his eyes and forehead. “And no riddles, Silvertongue. I know you love your poetry, but I do not have _time.”_

“You lack a workforce, and since Dwarves cannae breed that fast, you must find the help elsewhere.” Gimli gestures to the agreement he secured from Èomer. “You need more than the alliance with Dale, and the Rohirrim need Helm’s Deep in proper order. It behooves them to have a stronghold that is also a thriving colony, and it behooves us to have more locations to house our people. The diversification makes us less vulnerable, should one location come under siege.”

Thorin considers this without ire, and Gimli does not miss the way all of the other experts milling about the war room have slowed in their work to eavesdrop. “Perhaps that is so,” his King says at length. “But the horse lords are not builders or miners. They are a plains people—or am I mistaken?”

“You are not, but miners and builders are not the only members of a thriving society. The Rohirrim have tailors, cooks, and artisans. They have teachers, and healers, and those with a mind for language and politics. Those roles are equally valuable—and, as you so aptly put, we dinnae have the dwarrows to fill them all.”

The Stonehelm’s brows furrow as he regards Gimli. “A mixed colony with the Rohirrim,” he says dubiously.

“I see no reason for exclusivity, considering the renown of Hobbits and the proximity of our friends in Gondor,” Gimli says simply. “And, where Gondor’s Queen Arwen Undomiel is of Elven descent, it would be in poor form to welcome all Free Peoples but Elves to the settlement.”

That is when the whispers begin. Gimli does not know how his peers—the most educated and successful of his people—believe themselves subtle in this regard.

“I dinnae think to believe the name Elf-Friend was true.”

“Mahal wept, who bestowed such a horrid name upon the lad?”

Thorin does not seem to hear the whispers, focusing instead upon Gimli and his unique suggestion. For his part, Gimli allows himself only a twitch of irritation before shutting their voices out.

“A colony with open borders for Dwarves, Men, Hobbits _and_ Elves?” says the King, and incredulity rings loudly in every syllable.

“Exactly that, yes.”

“Did you not hear? Among his other trials, he endured an Elf of _Mirkwood.”_

This time Gimli’s twitch is involuntary.

The Stonehelm is frowning at Gimli as though he perceives a strange anomaly poking up from the braids of his beard and simply does not know how to point it out. “Such a settlement has never existed, Gimli.” He speaks as though his inflection alone might be enough to alert him to whatever has led to his lapse in logic. “Surely you understand what you are suggesting.”

“Of course I do. If the Fellowship of the Ring had been all Men, all Hobbit, all Elf—or yes, even all Dwarf—I can assure you that the undertaking would have failed.” It is taking all of Gimli’s considerable will to keep his tone clinical. He succeeds, for the most part; the only sign of his steeply rising fury is a faint quavering on the edges of his words. “But it was none of those things, and it succeeded. I do not believe that to be coincidence.”

“And he didn’t seek to cut its smirk from its face? The lad must have the patience of Mahal himself.”

That does it.

“Aye, I must, because your flea-bitten arse still isn’t in the sickbay!” Gimli’s voice was a booming crack as he rounded on the rest of the room, whirling to his feet with such force that he knocked the sturdy wooden chair to the stone. “I suppose you think I should have died in Moria, then?”

The silence that befalls his question is so absolute they can hear the conversations happening outside the war room with chilling clarity. Even the King does not speak, merely watches.

“Oh, Fríg, you dinnae know that?” Gimli continues, scathing. “There were drumbeats coming from the deepest, foulest pits of the mountain, echoing through the stone like the heartbeat of a sick beast. Durin’s Bane was once again awakening in a fury of blistering fire and shadow, and I was overcome with grief for the slaughter of our long-dead kin, including your cousin Frar. The rest of our company had fled the tomb, leaving me behind—save for one. Only _one_ of them noticed I had not followed, and came back for me. Do ye know who that was, Fríg? Can you muster the cognition to put the pieces together, or are you still too distracted by the perfumes of your own shit?”

It is then that Gimli realizes his voice is no longer sharp and disciplinarian. Rather, it is a thunderous roar of raw, unbridled fury. Certainly, this is no way to properly submit his argument, but it is an undeniably effective method of capturing the attention of every soul within half a league of him.

Fríg, for his part, is rooted in place with wide eyes. He does not speak, though for tact or astonishment Gimli cannot say. The dwarrow’s only response to the mostly rhetorical question is a single shiver.

Gimli treats that as confirmation. “It was the Elf, aye,” he growls. “He, who in that time held no friendship for me, who had spoken out against my insistences that we travel through the mountain. When all I wanted was to lay down and die beside the skeletons of my kin, he was the only soul who cared enough to drag me onto my feet and force me to run.” He pauses to let this testimony settle thick and heavy over the shoulders of his peers, too proud and guileless to know how wrong they are, and he thinks he sees a handful change their minds. Not enough to repay the telling of an experience he never wished to relive, perhaps, but better than nothing.

“So aye, I _endured_ him, that day and all the days following, where I saved his life in turn,” he says, his tone as soft as it is seething. “And, if the alternative is the torture of hearing you lot speak for the joy of running your fool mouths, perhaps I may be better off _enduring_ such company once more.”

Finally, he rounds on the King Under the Mountain. Thorin’s expression is inscrutable, or perhaps it is more accurate to say that Gimli is not looking closely enough. Either way, his King does not speak, merely waits.

In response to this wordless go-ahead, Gimli declares, “The Glittering Caves will have open borders, or they shall not exist. Nothing less shall function, and so nothing less will be good enough.”

Then, pulling the steaming mantle of his fury about him as a cloak of self-righteousness, he sweeps from the gobsmacked silence of the war room. He has not been excused by his King, but that matters not. He and Thorin will finish speaking of this later.

**.:;;:.**

In less than two days, tell of Gimli’s outburst has made the rounds in Erebor twice over, though there has been a conspicuous absence of dwarrows approaching him for confirmation.

Well, except his eldest sister, Gína. She is fifty years his senior, and a mother to boot; there is no question that her wrath far outstrips his own, and so she has no fear of him.

“Rumor has it you came down on Fríg like Mahal’s bloody hammer,” she remarks with a smirk of amusement. She drops onto the bench next to him, purposely coming too close and bumping their shoulders together.

They are at their favorite tavern, the one Nori and Dori used to co-own. Gimli is not hiding, but he is sitting alone as he sips from a tankard of frothing dark ale. He has lost more friends to the War of the Ring than he has made, as it turns out, and those that are left are either tending their children or working the night shift. Gimli still has several cousins, of course, but they do not seem to know what to do with him right now; it seems they think he is still furious, so they are giving him a wide berth.

At this point, Gimli truly does not know what to do with copious amounts of personal space. He thinks that is why his response to Gína’s greeting is to grin at her wryly and ask, “Oh, aye, is that how they’re phrasing it?”

“Well, they might have used less friendly language,” she allows with a grin of her own. She also has an ale in hand, and while she takes a hearty sip, she somehow manages to avoid catching any froth in her beard. One has to admire the skill inherent in that, pestering older sister or no.

Gína’s only child, Ghríc, is nearly at his majority, so unlike their middle sister Geri she has all night to needle him, if needs be. She also has the youth their father lacks, which means she will be able to keep up with whatever Gimli might decide to do. All in all, she is a formidable choice for confrontation, intervention, or comfort, whichever might be required.

Gimli snorts in amusement at her phrasing, though nods all the same. Dwarrows may not be approaching him about it, but he can hear the murmurs puttering up around him like the skittering of so many pebbles, ere he walks past. From war casualties and new ownership, this tavern does not get as crowded as it did before Gimli and Glóin left for Rivendell, lo those many months ago.

“Fair’s fair, I suppose,” he submits with a sigh. “I cannae say I was too friendly, myself.”

“You have seen much, _nadadith,”_ she says, and there is realization in her tone as she takes in the weary set of his shoulders. “Travel through Khazad-dȗm is among some of your lesser accomplishments now. I do not think any of us realized just what such an accumulation might mean, until you revealed that part of your history.”

Gimli shakes his head and rolls his shoulders, discomfited. “I am not half so tragic as that, and quite frankly I resent the implication,” he retorts, causing her to laugh.

“Then what are you now?” Gína asks in the simultaneously combative and affectionate manner that only siblings may understand. “Certainly, you do not need me to say that your quest has changed you.”

“You’re right at that,” Gimli mutters into his beer. He half-expects Gína to prod at him; she does not. With all of the patience that she has earned in raising Ghríc, she takes another pull of her own drink and waits.

It is in her waiting, fueled by love of him and genuine confusion towards his outburst in the war room, combined with the mutterings he can still so keenly pick out, that Gimli dreads he has found the answer to the question he asked in Fangorn.

He twists in his seat to face his eldest sister directly. “If my quest has taught me anything, it is that the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth are so much mightier together than we are apart. All of us, including Elves. I have seen it with mine own eyes, and I assure you it is true.” He searches the familiar features of her face, from the faint wrinkles etched into the corners of her eyes to the shape her beard forms around her mouth, and what he sees makes everything inside him tangle into a knot. “But you do not believe that,” he says with soft sorrow.

Gína is silent for long moments, the space between her eyebrows pinched as she regards him. “I can see that you do,” she says at the last, her words measured and not unkind. “And I trust that your experience was what you say—clearly, I cannot argue with your results!” She lets out a small laugh, but the attempt at levity falls short, and all that is left is her gazing at him with a want of understanding. “But I cannot say I believe your experience is universal. Cooperation with Men and Hobbits I can understand; I have seen that triumph before. However, whenever Dwarves and Elves are in the same space, it seems that discord is never far behind. Perhaps your friend is different even amongst his own kind, and that is why you found harmony within your Fellowship. I am glad for it, _nadadith,_ for it saved our world!” Here she reaches out and grips his forearm as though doing so might ground him in a way he is lacking. “I simply fear that you may be taking one good day in the mine as a sign that the vein is not lost.”

It is precisely as he feared in Fangorn: Gimli’s perspective may have been changed by his journey, but the profundity of those realizations are not shared by the rest of his people through the simple osmosis of his presence. For them, there has been a difficult siege and the threat of starvation, and of their neighbors only Dale answered when called, and the actions of two Hobbits ended the siege entirely; that is why they react as they do. Those experiences are what feeds their warmth for external alliance, and not Gimli’s anecdotes of something that happened half a world away.

Something of Gimli’s profound disappointment must have played out upon his face, for Gína gives his arm a squeeze. It is not lacking in affection, though he senses she does not realize how patronizing it comes across. Her eyes are heavy with the knowledge that she is delivering a hard truth, even if she will never know just how deep it goes. “If your friendships with those of your Fellowship is true, then I would have them all prosper—and if an Elf has saved my brother’s life,” she adds meaningfully. “Then I suppose I owe him a debt of gratitude. I am not saying my mind cannot be changed, through time and demonstration. But it is not so now.” The smile she bestows upon him is not without its regrets, though she is steadfast in her convictions all the same. “Not even for love of you.”

Gimli closes his eyes and lets out a long, slow breath, releasing the final sliver of hope that he might not be forced to choose. His sister is not being unreasonable—actually, her willingness to reconsider what she has always known to be true is exceedingly generous. In light of recent events, he should count himself lucky if that is the general consensus from his peers regarding this issue.

When he opens his eyes, it is with adjusted expectations. “Aye, that makes sense,” he says, reaching over and covering her powerful fingers with his own palm. “The world has been turned upside down for me, and in some way I have come to prefer its strangeness, but for you it remains stolidly upright.” He smiles without bitterness and gives her hand a squeeze of his own, to show there are no hard feelings. Blood over stone, after all. “I thank you for your willingness to listen, _namad,_ now and in the future.”

For a moment Gína is suspicious of how easily he has adjusted, her gaze searching and a trifle worried. Then she accepts that Gimli is genuine in his acquiescence to reason, and gives him an amiable grin. “I will come to regret saying that, won’t I? One way or another, you always make the chisel sing.”

Gimli throws his head back as he laughs. “If I can truly make the chisel sing, then you shall not even feel that.”

Gína raises her eyebrows briefly, skeptical, but then she too laughs, and raises her tankard to him in a brief and mildly impudent toast. _“Masul, nadadith.”_

Before she can drink, Gimli is knocking their tankards together in good humor, sloshing ale everywhere. They both pay the mess no mind and drink anyway, and it is a good start.

If the people he went to the ends of this world to represent and protect need time and demonstration, then so be it. Gimli will give them that. He will dedicate his life to it, carving painstakingly into the stone of history so that the next dwarrow in his position will find an easier time of it, and their efforts will make things easier for the next, and the next, until the path through the stone is so well worn that to take it is no hardship at all.

Yes, that Gimli can do.

**.:;;:.**

The following day Gimli receives his first royal summons since his outburst. He finds the timing incredibly convenient, but does not have a chance to ask Gína how and why she is conspiring with the King Under the Mountain.

Thorin is alone, for once, locked away in a private study that is some fair distance from the war room. This is probably for the best, considering how the staffers avoid Gimli as though his beard is on fire.

“You may have Aglarond,” he says by way of greeting. “And up to one hundred volunteers, if you can recruit them. This should go without saying, but all who agree to follow you must suffer no illusions about the sort of colony they are building.”

Gimli waits, but there are no further caveats. “That is far more equitable than I expected,” he admits as he sits across from his King without waiting to be invited. His King does not react at all, which leads Gimli to believe he has not offended.

“Your argument was compelling, until you took it too far,” Thorin says bluntly.

He does not bother to deny this, though he does ask, “So what swayed you?”

“Much as my advisors do not like it, the soul of your argument is still compelling. There are too few of us left to expand under our own power, and the Age of Man is upon us—this is the reality of our people.” The Stonehelm sits back in his chair, and for all that he is only twenty years older than Gimli he already looks far older than he should. The weight of leadership, indeed. “To that end, I would be friendly with as many of the Men as I can,” he says, giving Gimli a significant look. “And you have already made headway in this regard.”

Gimli recognizes when he has been led to a question. In this case, he sees no harm in permitting the structured conversation to follow its natural course. “What of the rest?”

“They shall wait,” the King Under the Mountain informs him, crisp and direct as he meets Gimli’s eyes. “This is an experiment. If all goes as you seem to expect, and your people are amiable to it, then we shall reevaluate.” The diction and force that backs his tone subsides, then, and instead of his King, Gimli is instead looking upon his friend. “I do not believe there will volunteers, otherwise.”

After the tempering discussion of last night, Gimli is inclined to agree, much as he does not like it. Still, there is an air about the Stonehelm he does not fully understand. “Forgive me if I am wrong, but it seems as though you have an ulterior motive.”

“It is not ulterior,” Thorin replies simply. “My father died protecting the body of King Brand, who was a Man and a staunch ally. He saw the value of unity and cooperation where many would not.” There is a slight pause as Thorin schools the flash of too-fresh grief from his features. They harden once more into a resolute expression as he says, “Our world is changing, Gimli, and if the Dwarves do not change with it, we shall perish. I believe we shall inevitably reach a state of open borders, as you do, but there are too many dwarrows who have not yet come to the same conclusion, and a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.”

“So we must change slowly, and wait,” says Gimli with a nod and a sigh. “Aye. Though I know you have the right of it, I find it a painful truth to swallow.”

“Why is that, my friend?” asks Thorin, concern mingling with his curiosity.

“Ach,” Gimli says with a dismissive wave. “It is merely my own impatience. I would have far-ranging peace and cooperation this instant, if I could.”

“Aye, as would I,” Thorin says with an accepting nod and a tired smile. “But it shall happen, slowly but surely. One does not forge a masterpiece in a single sitting.”

“No,” Gimli agrees. “One does not.”

But oh, would that they could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hopped onto The Dwarrow Scholar for some Dwarvish idioms and Khuzdul, because like so many of us I read and adored Sansukh and I just plain couldn't help myself. Translations are thus:  
> nadadith = little brother  
> namad = sister  
> Masul = good luck (literally: "upon this (meeting), I suggest, let all be lucky! (have luck)!")
> 
> Additionally, at this point I believe the contrary little hill I am shouting from has become apparent. Please stay with me as we explore the consequences of this decision.


	6. TA 3019 - FA 13: Ten and Three Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes, as is its wont.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter, but it is Necessary Groundwork for Future Plot, and I did try to inject some humor to make it More Interesting. The next chapter is already written, and will likely be posted in the next day or two (if my impatient gremlin brain has anything to say about it).

Third Age 3019 - Fourth Age 13: Aglarond

If there was ever any skepticism as to the productivity of Dwarves, it is dispatched handedly by the industry of those who come to Aglarond. Though Gimli initially leaves Erebor with seventy-eight volunteers, by the end of their fifth year the hundred spots have become so popular that there is a rotating workforce eager to behold the Glittering Caves, and their enthusiasm translates to the rapid development of city infrastructure.

Heat from the forges is caught and funneled to the centralized kitchen and artificial hot springs with slatted skylights that allow golden sun to glitter off of the jewel-studded walls. Immense, echoing cathedrals are fortified and reshaped into multi-level bazaars with winding, nearly Elven staircases carved carefully into the largest pillars formed by stalactites and stalagmites that merged together thousands of years before. Military-style sleeping barracks, the first structures built by the new colony, are slowly emptied out and retrofitted to academic dormitories as inhabitants establish residential districts. Community centers are initially founded adjacent to areas of necessity, such as the great domed cafeteria; as time passes, those communal centers are deliberately embedded into the realm’s design. The cafeteria becomes known only as the Hub as it is transformed into the heart of the city, to which all roads and entrances are invariably connected.

By the end of their sixth year, there is enough infrastructure for Aglarond to be habited by enterprising Men, who help to establish trade routes from realms to the west of the White Mountains, including the Shire. It is they who have the idea to repurpose the excess of rubble from Aglarond’s excavation. The largest stones from the excavation are sold to Gondor for masonry, and the smaller rubble is ground down and cemented into place as sturdy roads.

Is the Men, along with an emphatically worded letter from Legolas, that convince Gimli to begin drafting The Greenhouse Project. A not-insignificant portion of the southwest-facing slopes of the mountain shall be hollowed out to form steppes that curve with the shape of the land and large, thick glass panes installed in the stone above. Combined with a clever series of mirrors, underground agriculture may be established, and eventually Aglarond’s reliance on food imports will become less. According to the agricultural experts he has consulted, between the light from the sun and the heat of the forges, strategically placed the next level down, this arrangement has strong potential for extending the growing season through the winter.

It is the most outlandish idea Gimli has ever heard, and there are times even he has to quell the knee-jerk instinct to protest at this brazenly _un-Dwarven_ use of his mountain. What settles him every time, however, is the reminder that this colony is not just for Dwarves. As the Lord of this realm, it is his duty to ensure all of his people are served as best he may, and it isn’t as though they are short on space.

The full-scale Greenhouse Project is also hugely ambitious, and he does not have the dwarrows to spare on fully executing it. As a compromise, Gimli allows the team the resources for one of the skylights to be installed, and as much hollowing for growing space as they believe it can support. When he makes an offhand remark about this in a letter, the incredibly passionate response he receives from Legolas forces him to acknowledge that wildly experimental ideas like this take time, both for fine-tuning of logistics and to truly grasp the results it is capable of producing. Once construction is complete, he grants the long-distance behest of his unofficial advisor and gives the Greenhouse team five years to prove their concept.

The team takes the five years, but by the end of the third Gimli is already adjusting construction timelines so they may have an allocation when the time comes. Perhaps it is because Aglarond is now home to a small contingency of Hobbits (all coincidentally bearing the surname Took; Gimli is not surprised), and they have applied themselves to the success of this project with a will. All he knows is that fresh chives and tomatoes were being casually served by the kitchens in the middle of a particularly frigid January, and that was the moment he conceded to the Greenhouse Project’s viability.

 _I applaud this presence of fresh produce, despite the barrenness of winter, and I wish you many more winters like it! Any break from preserves or dried goods in the colder months is a compelling delight, in my experience,_ Legolas writes in reply to his grudgingly scrawled admission. _How fortunate for the citizens of Aglarond that innovation is not scorned! It does you credit to have listened to their ideas,_ _dear Gimli._

His words are gracious enough, on the outset, but Gimli is acutely aware of the smugness all but radiating from them, and the taunting flourish that curls playfully around every letter. After regularly writing to one another the better part of a decade, Gimli is not blind to how much it delights Legolas to dance around the phrase “I told you so.”

Damn elf.

Teasing notwithstanding, Gimli is pleased with the progress Aglarond is making on all accounts. Construction will likely continue for the rest of his lifetime as the realm grows and becomes more sophisticated, but by the thirteenth anniversary of his Lordship the settlement’s most essential framework has been set, and there are schematics in place to guide future generations on the next several expansions.

He is also deep in negotiation with the King Under the Mountain about throwing open Aglarond’s borders to all Free Peoples indiscriminately, but those are crawling along much slower than he would prefer.

So it is that Gimli finally feels comfortable enough with the state of his colony to divert a portion of his workforce to Minas Tirith, who have been slowly but surely making repairs to their infrastructure. He and Aragorn—sorry, the distinguished _King Elessar_ —have been bandying ideas for a grand entrance to the city on and off for years now. Towering doors made of intricate steel and mithril had been the concept the good King favored in his most recent letter on the subject, but that was months ago, so Gimli is bringing along several sketches for him to choose from. He and his chief engineer also have ideas to rework the layout of the White City’s first and second levels so they make some damn _sense,_ too, but Elessar does not know it yet. Gimli thinks the King will appreciate the logic of the schematics when he sees them, however, and considers himself a very thoughtful soul for taking such initiative.

The original plan had been to send the contingency of masons, metal workers and engineers on their own, along with a letter closed with Gimli’s private seal, but that was before Gimli received notice of the birth of the second Princess of Gondor, and the celebration being held in her honor.

It is rather opulent, to host such an event for a third child, but there were celebrations held for the first two, so he supposes it is only fair. Gimli’s affection for his friend, and the good face it makes for Aglarond, bid him attend without regard for whether or not the event is superfluous. These are times of peace, after all—what else is there to bring them all together?

And if in Legolas’ most recent letter he asserts his intention to attend any events there may be for the babe, regardless of how many calls Ithilien makes upon his time, then it is a fine coincidence, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The designs for Aglarond are entirely my own. I now want to live there.


	7. FO 13: The Birth of A Rivalry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since these friends have gotten together.

Fourth Age, Year 13: Minas Tirith

Since the War of the Ring, Legolas has worked with far more Men than he has in his entire life. All Men age at a truly alarming rate, but it is Elessar and the rapid evolution of his children that give the passage of the last fifteen years greatest impact. The First Princess, Edraithiel, is nearly twice her height and nearly as articulate as any adult when fifteen years ago none had any concept of her existence! The contrast is sharp, and it jolts him into a keen, painful awareness of every passing second as only the lives of the Second Born can.

It is moments like this that Legolas wonders at the fine, shivering line between immortality and stagnation.

The Princes of Ithilien have arrived a day early for the festivities, as is their wont. Discussions about the eastern half of Gondor are usually best done in person, which is how he and Faramir justify taking the extra day to spend with their friends. The King’s staff know them well by now, and after the unexpected appearance of Princess Edraithiel, who is allegedly on her way to the kitchens, there is little fanfare for their arrival. Staffers guide them to their typical rooms with pleasantries and the locale of the King and Prince Eldarion. Apparently, they are holding counsel with the Lord of Aglarond, who is also recently arrived.

In Legolas’ typical rooms there is an entryway marking his suite as a sister to the one adjacent. It is discrete, liable to be mistaken for a closet until one remembers there are only chests and wardrobes in Minas Tirith. The deadbolt on the door is newer than the rest of it, and fastened securely on both sides. Minas Tirith is full of strange architecture as this, so perhaps it cannot be helped. However, the only way Legolas is not discomfited by this odd feature is the knowledge that, unerringly, it is the Lord of Aglarond who is assigned the other rooms, or none at all.

The deadbolts have never been unfastened, of course, but this incredibly subtle nod from the King (or is it his staff?) has not gone unnoticed.

One day, there will be no need for such doors. Until then, however, there is some small reassurance in knowing there are those who would make them. Legolas divests himself of his travel clothes and weapons without looking at the door again.

In short order, he reconvenes with Faramir in the familiar, brightly lit stone passageway that leads to the King’s advisory chamber. For all that the door is shut and flanked by guards, no amount of polite distance can obscure the sound of Gimli’s laugh, hearty and booming. It interrupts one of the guards—Ceril, Legolas recalls from a previous visit—just as he is about to announce Legolas and Faramir’s arrival.

“Been like this since the Lord found them,” the other guard, whom Legolas does not recognize, mutters by way of explanation. The Man appears sheepish, though Legolas cannot fathom why; there is no shame in mirth. “They’re having a right good time.”

Faramir chuckles, and Legolas smiles. “Reunions always seem to go one of two ways,” he says. “Let us be glad theirs is of the lighthearted variety.”

Faramir seems to realize his words are mild jest and nothing more, but the unfamiliar guard pales at the insinuation of the trauma that booming voice might be able to inflict in darker circumstances.

“Ah, I hear new voices,” comes Elessar’s observation, precisely as Ceril attempts once more to formally announce their presence. The King’s tone is light and loud enough that both Ceril and his partner snap to attention in preparation for his reappearance. “Come, my friend. Let us see who else dares to call upon the King on such an auspicious day.”

“Whom did you hear, Father? Could you tell?” asks a voice that belongs to neither Elessar nor Gimli. It is not the high-pitched timbre of a child, but neither is it the low resonance of an adult Man. The young Eldarion, ostensibly—well, not quite so young now, Legolas allows. In the eyes of his people, the Prince of Gondor is very close to his majority, and it reflects in his timbre.

Legolas flicks his eyes to Faramir, but the latter does not seem to have overheard this. Not loud enough for Mannish ears, then. He turns his eyes forward again, serene and expectant, affecting the air of one who is not privy to the discussion within.

To his credit, Ceril has shown remarkable patience throughout all of these thwarted attempts at courtesy. Undaunted, he tries once more. “My King—”

“If I’ve learned nothing in this life, lad, it’s that if you dinnae have the ears of the Elves, the only way to get a proper answer is to find out for yourself,” comes the amiable rumble, rolling like stone on the r’s and lilting up unexpectedly on the a’s: Westron molded around the unmistakable impression of a lifetime of Khuzdul. Though Legolas has not been tense leading up to this moment, he nonetheless finds his shoulders and the corners of his eyes relaxing into the sound, the same way one might to the thunder of a waterfall. “Though I’m certain that whomever it is shall not be quite so accommodating and helpful.”

Ah. It seems Gimli does not need the ears of the Elves to suspect who might be on the other side. He would not already be heckling, otherwise.

Ceril’s mouth shuts with a click of his teeth, and he breathes out, once, through his nose as he reestablishes his composure. “My Lords—”

“Or half as appalled by the White City’s infrastructure, I’m sure,” Elessar says archly. “To say true, Gimli, I do not know when I shall have the time to thoroughly appraise these documents as they deserve. Do not wait for me in this—each design is more beautiful and practical than the last; I have implicit trust in the judgement of your Dwarven craftsman in this matter, and default to you entirely.”

At this point color is rising in poor Ceril’s face, and Faramir’s shoulders are trembling in suppressed mirth. For his part, Legolas manages to keep his own smile of amusement from creeping upon him, though only barely.

“I’ll try,” says the other guard reassuringly. He straightens his shoulders and clears his throat. “My Ki—”

“Excellent,” comes Gimli’s crisp and approving reply, inadvertently cutting the guard off again. “That was the answer I was looking for. My dwarrows shall have your gates and your lower city tiers in short order.”

Elessar’s voice is warm with affection and mirth as he says, “I do not doubt it.”

Idly, Legolas wonders how much of the interruptions Faramir can actually hear. Certainly, he knows they are happening; would it bring him further amusement to know the chatter is so inane?

“I prefer negotiations with you over the other Dwarf Lords,” Eldarion quietly murmurs to Gimli amidst the sound of scraping chairs and footsteps. “I sense no air of pretense in what you say.”

Gimli and Elessar both laugh to this, and Elessar reveals, “That is because I request it of him, and for love of me he kindly obliges.”

“When it comes to the Dwarves, lad, be direct if you can,” says Gimli as the door is finally opened. “We dinnae have time for long and drawn out negotiations, either.” He is at the end of the line, and must duck around Eldarion’s lanky person in order to see who awaits them outside. When he spies Legolas and Faramir, he beams. “I thought I heard your voice. It’s about time you got here.”

With a deep sigh, Ceril gestures to Faramir and Legolas and finally manages to utter a complete formal announcement. It is highly unnecessary at this point, but after all of those interruptions one can only assume the guard takes it to be a personal victory.

Whereas Elessar is more world-weary and slightly greyer at the temples, Eldarion is tall and stretched out from recent growth, and sporting some number of the acne of pubescence—a viciously altered picture from the boy Legolas met less than a year ago. Gimli, however. Gimli is reassuringly, blessedly unchanged. His hair and beard are as bright and fiery as ever; the powerful, prominent muscles of his arms and chest remain undiminished; and there are no extra lines at his eyes and forehead. He even sports the same finely carved leather belt as he did for the last celebration they both attended. Oh, his tunic and braids are different, and he ornaments himself with stunning examples of the sapphires and crystals one may find in Aglarond—there is actually a new piercing glittering in the cartilage of his ear—but he is still in very much the same state.

He also has laughter and joy in the dark depths of his eyes as he regards Legolas. That, too, is reassuringly consistent.

Courtesy dictates he must greet the King first, but it is very tempting to eschew that and fall into banter. Legolas nonetheless ignores the heckling and bows to Elessar in the Elvish fashion, his hand held open over his heart,

“The Lord of Ithilien requested you to be direct, too?” Eldarion asks Gimli. To the painfully young Man’s mind, that must seem the only explanation for the way Gimli speaks to Legolas.

“Oh, aye,” says Gimli breezily. “Most who know me do, or my silver tongue will have them making overly ambitious promises they cannae keep.”

The young Prince squints at the Dwarf in sudden suspicion. “I can no longer sense how much of this you say in jest.”

“Nearly all, my son,” Elessar says without looking over his shoulder as he finishes greeting Legolas and Faramir. “My apologies, I did not think to educate you on the wiles of Dwarves before we met with this one.”

Eldarion is mildly indignant at having been fooled, even for such a short time. Gimli takes the well-deserved retort for the lighthearted fare that it is, and laughs before moving forward and greeting Faramir. “Ah, lad, it has been some years. Thank Mahal it seems they have treated you kindly! How is the White Lady of Ithilien, and your children?”

“All very well, thank you,” says Faramir with lingering amusement. “And I trust your good spirits to be a reliable indication of Aglarond’s viability?”

“There is always something more to do, but for the moment things are respectable,” Gimli says with a brisk nod. “Patience is a virtue I am learning the hard way, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, I know those lessons well—without Legolas and the wisdom of the Elves, I fear there are moments my impatience might have overwhelmed me.”

Gimli raises his eyebrows and seems about to utter a teasing quip about the wisdom of the Elves, but is overridden by Elessar, “My Lords of Ithilien, did you have need of me?”

“Only to inform our King of our presence by way of greeting, and to congratulate him on the growing size of his family,” Legolas replies. “Arwen fares well, I hope?”

At this the royal air of King Elessar abruptly disappears, and once more he is the hopelessly besotted ranger Legolas fought beside not so long ago. “Indeed she does, her strength is matched by none other,” he says with audible relief and adoration. “Would you do me the honor of meeting my new daughter, my friends?”

“It would be a grand honor to greet the new Princess,” says Legolas with a gesture for his friend to lead the way, flanked wordlessly by the same guards who held the door to his meeting room.

“Would that she might understand how all this pomp and circumstance is for her!” adds Gimli with some measure of amusement. He is attempting to make amends for having betrayed the young Prince’s trust, if Legolas is not mistaken.

“She will hear tell of it for long years, just as her siblings before her,” Faramir predicts, casting a smile at Eldarion as though in memory of his own youth. Legolas recalls the demise of Boromir with a pang of sadness. “It will be as if she remembers, I am certain.”

The Prince of Gondor snorts in a fashion more befitting of a horse than royalty, but he is a youth among friends, so one cannot hold it against him overmuch. “I have no elder siblings, and I too possess these borrowed memories. I cannot imagine it will be any easier for my new sister,” he informs them all in a conspiratorial manner.

“As your years accumulate, I believe you shall find benign excuses for unity and celebration as necessary as holding council with your advisors,” Elessar says as the boy joins him in leading the way to where the Queen is attending their new family member. There is a peculiar smile upon his face, a hint to some reference Legolas does not have enough context to guess at. “At any rate, they rarely cause more trouble than laughter.”

Eldarion makes a considering noise as a conspicuous mental note is tucked away. Instead of sharing his thoughts, however, he brightens at the sight of a particular door tucked at the end of a hall. “They are as we left them!” He looks up to Elessar. “Should I tell Mother there will be company?”

Elessar smiles with gentle affection and touches the young Man between his shoulder blades. “Perhaps that is wise.”

“Of course!” The child darts off in a flurry of youthful vigor, skids over the stone floor as he nearly overshoots his destination, and then hastily straightens his vestments before giving a brisk knock to the door and letting himself in, calling out to his mother as he goes.

“I remember when I had that much energy,” Faramir remarks, a faint wistfulness in his tone. “I think my youngest took the last of it for an early inheritance when he was born.”

Elessar laughs, and Legolas—who has heard this theory before—only smiles.

“Ah, but the sight of a soul who has only known peace is a fine one,” Gimli says fondly. “It fortifies my ambitions to keep it so.”

“That is does.” Elessar speaks quietly, though his volume does not diminish the verve of his agreement. “If I can gift unto him and his sisters a world made better than I found it, then I believe I shall rest peacefully.”

There is no time for any of them to respond to this declaration, for at that point they are upon what Legolas presumes to be a nursery, and the guards are settling on either side of the door after they file in. There is a low, warm fire flickering behind metal mesh, and an empty bassinet in a softly lit corner. There is also a couch lined with pillows made of gentle fabrics and a wooden rocking chair boasting carvings of daffodils and daisies. Arwen Undomiel is upon the latter, tilting back and forth with soothing consistency as she supports an oblong armful of blankets. Eldarion is standing beside her, looking very proud of himself for her utter lack of surprise at all this company.

“Where is Edraithiel?” inquires Elessar as he comes forward and bestows a chaste though nonetheless adoring kiss upon his wife’s brow. “I thought she was with you.”

“She has gone forth to fetch us refreshments from the kitchen—and may the adventure still her anxious pacing,” Arwen replies. Her smile is tired from taking care of her newborn, but contentedness radiates from her with every warm pulse of her heart. If ever there was question as to whether she regretted her decision to eschew her immortality, Legolas thinks, one need only to look upon her now. Truly, he has not seen his old friend so full of peace and bliss. She does not care that there are faint lines at the corners of her eyes now, or for the new curves motherhood has bestowed upon her formerly lithe figure.

No, he thinks, as Faramir recalls seeing Edraithiel upon their arrival and the Evenstar’s overwhelmingly blue eyes find him. Her smile changes, sharing her fondness for centuries gone, as well as the spirit to fully embody every aspect of the current moment.

No, she regrets nothing at all.

“I delight to see you all again, my Lords,” she tells them. “Forgive me if I do not stand to greet you—I have only just gotten her to sleep.”

“It is no trouble at all to come to you instead, my old friend,” Legolas says as he approaches. In truth, he has very little experience with infants beyond the handful of occasions his Mannish friends have created them. Nonetheless, he peers at the flushed little face in the Queen’s arms, with her eyes scrunched shut and her nose wrinkled, even in slumber, and he croons, “She is lovely.”

Arwen flashes him a look that is equal parts entertainment and skepticism. She knows as well as he that Elven children have been exceedingly rare the last several centuries—increasingly few of their kind have bonded for fear of Sauron and the soul-rending grief wars with him may cause, and even less have brought children into the world for the same reasons. While there might be some change in the former now, the latter trend will likely continue as the years march on. Despite the peace they all currently enjoy, the Time of the Elves has well and truly run its course on Arda, and no number of progeny is going to change that.

In light of Arwen’s shared knowledge, he might as well have shrugged and called her newborn a passable ragdoll.

Knowing he has been found out, and lacking anything better to say, Legolas makes haste to right himself and step aside, the tips of his ears burning. At least the Queen is taking his remarks in good humor.

Gimli approaches next, shooting Legolas a curious look as he does so. When he turns to the infant, his gaze is filled with some wonder. “My Lady, I am hard pressed to recall more handsome babe—except, perhaps,” he adds with a glance to Eldarion. “Your other fine children.”

Eldarion’s face becomes a picture of disgruntlement. “Such flattery shall not work upon me, now that I know of your silver tongue,” he retorts.

In a clear effort not to disturb the baby, Gimli’s laugh is compressed so thoroughly it is nothing but a wheeze. “You cannot use a name given to me in honor for an insult, lad!” he says, swiping a tear of mirth from his eye.

It is obvious the young Prince had not been expecting such an answer, but he is defiant in his effort to save face. “Then why, pray tell, has it been bestowed upon you?”

“Because I am prone to poetry, my young friend,” Gimli replies, still overcome with humor; his shoulders are quaking with it. “Nothing more.”

“It seems I have missed a significant diplomatic development,” the Queen murmurs, glancing up at her eldest with deep-seated amusement.

“Entirely of their own making, and escalating all the time,” says Elessar. “I should not be surprised if our son has declared his rivalry with Lord of Aglarond by the end of this event.”

The mental image of this tickles Gimli so much that he makes the tactful decision to also step away from the babe and lean against Legolas as he recovers his composure—or, perhaps it is Eldarion’s spluttering indignation at being called out so by his father.

“It seems the jovial mood is catching,” Faramir observes as he approaches to pay his respects, at the last.

“And it would be a pity for it to be anything else,” the Evenstar says, her tone wry. “Your own children are well, I trust?”

“Oh, very. Èowyn has taken delight in finally teaching them both to ride, so my life is naught but a flurry of Rohirric horse-talk now. I cannot find it in myself to mind, though.” With an expression of a Man recalling his own children, he gazes down upon the new Princess. “Has she a name, yet?”

“Edenith.”

Perhaps Gimli’s break into hysterics has somehow influenced him, because Legolas must bite the inside of his cheek now to keep from giggling.

Faramir does not notice. “Such a musical name—is it also Elvish?”

Before Arwen can reply, Edraithiel makes her return with a covered tray of food held high over her head. The triumph in her demeanor wanes as she sees how many more bodies there are in the nursery than when she left. “I… do not have enough for everyone,” she admits as she sets the tray down on the square, hip-high table next to the bassinet.

At this point the baby rustles in her blankets and utters a throaty cry that scrunches her tiny features. Are infants capable of expressing annoyance?

Arwen lets out a soft sigh, and Elessar winces guiltily. “We shall quit the room, so you may find peace,” he promises, already gesturing for everyone who is not the Queen, the baby, or Edraithiel to get moving. Relief emanates from him as his wife accepts an apologetic kiss. “I shall leave Ceril behind, in case you have need of me.”

Faramir waits until all five of them are standing sheepish in the hall, and the shut door is muffling the irritable squalls of the young Edenith, to say to Elessar, “It is just as well, I am afraid, for there is a matter I would speak with you about.”

“Your timing is fair, for there are some hours yet before dinner, and I would spend my time thereafter with friends instead of Lords with their agendas,” Elessar replies with equanimity. “Let us attend to this business so our evening may be unencumbered. Eldarion shall join us, as part of his training.” He places a hand on his lanky son’s shoulder and angles him so that he is facing the way they have come, towards the meeting room they all congregated outside earlier. Then he spares a glance for Legolas and Gimli. “I trust the Lords of Ithilien and Aglarond are familiar enough with the facilities that they need no escort?”

Legolas bows, and Gimli says, “Go along, lad. This Lord has no more need of your time.”

Elessar nods, and they depart with only one of his guards alongside. Ceril is stationed outside of the nursery, as promised. Gimli and Legolas separate from them at the next split in the hallway, aiming for the courtyard with its great White Tree.

As soon as they are out of earshot, Legolas is finally able to release the guilty laughter he has been holding in. “Her name is _Edenith.”_

“Aye, Edenith,” says Gimli, glancing at him dubiously. “It seems pretty, insofar as Elvish names go.”

Legolas shakes his head, still giggling. He braces his hand on the other’s muscular shoulder as they walk, and he does feel slightly ashamed that this is his reaction, but if any soul might understand it is the one walking next to him. “Gimli. _Mellon_. Do you know what Edenith means, in Sindarin?”

“Clearly I don’t, lad.”

“New Sister.”

They do not stop walking, but Gimli’s suppressed silence is all the answer Legolas needs to know that his faith in the other’s understanding was not misplaced. “They cannae be so overwhelmed by leadership and parenthood already?” he says, disbelieving. “Surely they have more inspiration for a new babe’s identity than _that?”_

“If you had been named Male Dwarf in your native tongue, it would be the same,” Legolas says. He is half covering his eyes for the culpability for laughing at his friends’ new family member, but he just—

Gimli groans and shakes his head with disappointment, but he is also giggling despite himself, and that makes Legolas feel better.

“Oh, Aragorn. Oh, the poor lass—it is a respectable name, though? Others have held it before?”

His companion is especially keen for reassurance on this point, and it takes a moment for Legolas to remember that Dwarves put quite a lot of stock into the power of names. Gimli is not merely amused by this translation—if it is as lackluster as Legolas has described, then to a Dwarf the poor babe’s name is nearly a scandal in itself.

“They have, yes, but not in Ages.” Another side effect of smaller or nonexistent families, truly. Perhaps Edenith is their way of trying to indicate a time of plenty once more?

Gimli lets out a sound of sympathy, and they share another guilty laugh together before composing themselves like the proper and distinguished Lords they are. “He cannae know of this laughter,” Gimli says meaningfully.

Before them is the location their feet have carried them without their knowledge: the main entryway out onto the courtyard. The White Tree of Gondor is in full bloom, as it often is now that the King has returned. Each petal seems impossibly resplendent in the shining mid-afternoon sun. There are others walking about, admiring the Tree and enjoying the breeze that skitters unhindered over the artificial plateau, so far above any other artificial or natural structures in this area. The view from the top of Minas Tirith stretches unbroken for leagues upon leagues—and more than that, with the eyes of an Elf.

It is the sort of open space one might require to safely wring out the final vestiges of uncouth humor before pointing off into the distance and sharing the developments of a fledgling colony without a piece of parchment as the middleman.

“Absolutely not,” Legolas agrees. “I thank you for listening to my revelation, for I could not have borne it alone, but now I believe it is safe to call this conversation well and truly forgotten.”

His companion’s only response is an emphatic nod, and then together they are stepping out into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the wiki says is that Aragorn and Arwen have Eldarion, and then "Daughter(s)", which I found a bit exasperating. Then, whilst scrolling through Sindarin names for this unspecified number of daughters, I came across Edenith and found my destiny.


	8. FO 13: If Anyone Asks, It's Nostalgia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where does the time go, and may we have more of it?

Fourth age, Year 13: Minas Tirith

Gimli knows it has been some time since he and Legolas have been under the same roof. However, it is not until the next day, when they are in the middle of the boisterous celebration for the unfortunately named Edenith’s existence, that one of their more competitive conversations drives him to some temporal calculations.

The last event that requested the attendance of all far-flung allies was the birth of Faramir’s youngest, over seven years ago.

Seven years. Has it really been so long? Gimli recalls diplomatic meetings, trade agreements, consultation with engineers about the load bearing capacity of archways and struts. He recalls writing letter after letter, and fresh tomatoes in the middle of January, and always the dust and rubble of endless construction. He does not recall the passing of so many seasons as more than a blur of deadlines and paperwork—but there is no mistaking the current year, or the simple math required for this deduction.

“Seven years,” he mutters, aghast.

Truly, it is not only Elves who lose track of time.

The momentum of the discussion is well and truly gone, destroyed by Gimli’s realization. As with most formal affairs, he and Legolas are tabled with other Lords of regions that are either too far-flung to bear influence in Gondor or also small and promising. Their peers are only familiar in face and name, for the most part, and most are trying too hard to appear urbane for the motley of Kings in attendance to engage in easy banter as Legolas and Gimli do. As such, if any of them notice the lively conversation screeching to a halt, they are too polite to remark upon it, just as they were too respectable to join in.

To that end, Legolas is the only soul who reacts. The levity drops from his demeanor as he peers at Gimli with concern, his head tilting to the side in a nearly birdlike manner. The multicolored sunlight filtering in through windows of stained glass and the immense, Dwarven-made crystal chandelier looming above them all are both glinting upon the delicate silver-and-rosewood circlet upon his head. As if either of them needs reminding of who they are.

“Seven years of what, _mellon-nîn?”_ he asks.

It is funny, how the generic Sindarin term _mellon-n_ _în_ can sound so much like a heartfelt endearment, if you tilt your ears the right way. Gimli has not missed that Legolas calls all of their friends only the Westron translation. It has been so since their trip to Fangorn.

Rare are the moments that Gimli feels bitter about this life and what he has made of it. After all, what is there to complain about? He has excellent friends, excellent health, and he is well on his way to forging a legacy anyone might be proud of.

Even now, the bitterness on the back of his tongue tastes more like regret. Disappointment in himself, for letting the years slip past unnoticed. Surely— _surely_ he could have found a day or two to put aside during that time. Could he not have? In the whole of seven years, was there no single day he might have spared?

Upon second thought, perhaps the bitterness is directed more inward, because he had not set aside any such day. He had been far too absorbed in the nigh-overwhelming machinations of day to day life.

Though Gimli still has not spoken, Legolas melts into a slow sigh of insight and resignation. “Seven years,” the elf agrees with a grim smile. “Much has happened in that time—and yet, hardly anything at all.”

There is something about the way he speaks the latter half of that sentence that Gimli recognizes from his letters, and whether he intends it or no, it pulls Gimli from his sourness. “There is still unrest, then?” he asks.

“It is not quite so overt as that. There is.” Legolas pauses, either translating or at a loss as to describe it. “I’ve mentioned that the majority of Ithilien’s population is made of Elves who chafed under my father’s leadership, for some reason or another.”

“Individuals who had quarrel with your father, and not you. Mostly Silvans, I believe you said?” Legolas is clearly reviewing this in an attempt to better illustrate his eventual point, and Gimli does not begrudge him the divagation. If for nothing else, this discussion prevents him from making any rash declarations.

“The very same. I thought nothing of it, at the time. I am not my father, though I know how he can be—Silvan Elves are far better suited to woodland restoration than the Sindar established within my father’s court, besides. Overall, I thought it a good match.”

“It seems to be, from my vantage.” Gimli nods along to show that he is not bogged down by the cultural differences between the Elves of the wood and the court. They have known each other long enough that he has the gist of it. Legolas himself is mixed, and while his looks and authority are derived from his Sindar heritage, his Silvan roots are belied by strong personal preferences for naturalism and minimalism.

“I fear no coup or riot—if I did, I would not have come to this event,” he says with a vague gesture to the hall they are currently feasting in. “But they are…” A breath of frustration with Westron for not possessing the word. “I suppose it might be called a wariness? Or perhaps it is better to name it a petulance that comes just short of unrest. They follow the letter of my instruction, instead of the spirit, and then they look to see how I may react to their subtle affronts.”

Gimli shakes his head with a noise of disapproval. “Dwarves do not see the point in feigned niceties,” he says, by way of both sympathy and explanation.

“I know you do not, _mellon._ It is one of the many reasons I enjoy your scintillating company.” He grins at Gimli’s snort of amusement. S _cintillating._ The more flowery the language in his presence, the more sarcastic Legolas is being—though there is some comfort in knowing the other has not yet lost his sense of humor. “But I digress,” he continues more soberly. “I sense I am being tested, though Elvish courtesy prevents them from doing anything overt. I know many are older than I, and by no small margin, but I am no youth, spitting vinegar and taking intimate count of my years! Ever have I sought the most rational and well-informed solutions to matters of logistics. Ever have I sought to do right by them! And yet the needling persists.”

Legolas slumps, if such a feat be possible for a creature of such deadly grace. His elbow rests upon the table next to his plate, and his cheek upon his knuckles, and looks to Gimli with acute frustration, safe in the knowledge that the latter understands why. “Dare I hope that your outside vantage may see what I so obviously cannot?”

Gimli’s instinct is to admit that the intricate nuance of Elven disputes is beyond him—rapport with a single Elf does not a cultural expert make—and yet, there is one detail which intrigues him.

“You mention your age,” he says. “Never have you brought attention to it before, much less with such defensiveness. Has that been cited as problematic?”

“If I were a Dwarf among Dwarves, perhaps so, and may I fare better for knowing my fault,” Legolas says, uncharacteristically sullen. He is still alight on his knuckles. “Alas: as I am an Elf among Elves, only speculation may sustain me. Typically underlying concerns are more easily traced—though my people be subtle, rarely are they so opaque.”

“Is your relative youth your only offense, by your estimation?”

“That, or they seek to punish me in lieu of my father, whom they felt they could never hurt—but nay, that is far too convoluted.” He straightens his shoulders and shakes his head. “If that be their goal, they might have waited until the realm is better established to immigrate, so they would be more comfortable in the doing of it. Despite these obfuscations, my people work hard.”

“I suppose there is no option to ask outright.”

To this he receives a very dry, very tired look. “Were I a Dwarf among Dwarves,” Legolas begins again, his pronunciation clear and deliberate.

“Alright, _alright_ , dinnae hurt yourself,” he says, holding up a placating hand even as he bites back a laugh that does not befit their discussion. “If you truly believe your only crime is how long you have been walking Middle-Earth, then what have you done to allay their concerns?”

“What would you have me do, Gimli?” he asks, his words huffing out in exasperation. “I know no age-altering magic. Shall I retreat to a vacuum for a few thousand years, so I may age independently of them, and then return to reclaim my abdicated Lordship?”

Gimli cannot determine whether this outburst is due to a buildup of hurt and frustration, or if Legolas is truly so touchy about his age, whatever it happens to be. Either way, he has sympathy for his companion, for it seems that generational animosity is not as common amongst Elves as mortals.

“Peace, Legolas, none here expect the impossible,” he says, gripping his companion’s arm. “I merely wonder if you have appointed one of their number as an advisor.”

The elf blinks at him, too puzzled to be irate. “I do not understand how this may soothe their irritations.”

“Perhaps some of their malcontent is derived from your heritage, perhaps not—nonetheless, as your elders, they may question and push you in ways they could not with your father. You say yourself they work hard, and they have walked Middle-Earth longer. Consult them in their work, ask for the wisdom of their years, and they shall settle better.” He allows his hand to fall, and offers a reassuring smile. “I have found drawing dissenters into the folds of your decision making an ideal method of making them dissenters no more.”

“It is undeniably Dwarven in nature, but it may work,” Legolas says slowly, and while that may be how another might demur Gimli takes it for the thoughtful acceptance of opinion that it is. “I shall have to think on it.”

“Think on it, or do not—I shall send you no invoice this time.” He grins as the other laughs, and takes up his mug of ale as he sits back in his chair, full of belly and of spirit. “Ach, it truly has been too many years.”

“Letters do well when the alternative is nothing, but they are poor facsimiles of proper company,” Legolas agrees. Now that the conversation is changed, he seems to remember that he has not yet finished picking at his plate. He takes another few bites as Gimli sips his beer, both of them at home with the pleasant and comfortable air between them. Their lives are far more complex than they were that year they did nothing but run about and kill Sauron’s minions, but when they are together Gimli can feel some of that simplicity of purpose come back to him as if he has passed into the eye of a storm.

Now that he is here, it is hard to imagine how he could let seven whole years sneak by without seeking out this peace.

“I do not know how urgently Aglarond requires your return,” Legolas says at length, tone light and conversational. “But our scouts have been finding evidence of a holdout of Easterlings to the northeast of our realm, somewhere along the foothills of Ered Lithui. My intention upon my return from Minas Tirith is to ride out and eradicate them, if needs must—and if you have the time, I would value your axe.”

It seems Gimli is not the only one who has been thinking wistfully of their adventures across Middle-Earth.

Nevertheless, the news is intriguing on its own. “It is nearly fifteen years since the War of the Ring,” he says. “There is no reason for there to still be stragglers in retreat.”

“Indeed,” Legolas says. “And the evidences my people have found are also small and sporadic. Perhaps it is nothing. To that end, I had not intended to bring a full company with me for my investigations. I would not waste valuable time which could be better spent on restoration unless I was certain.”

It is a reasonable enough justification for a two-person scouting party, though Gimli suspects the other might have delegated the task had this idea not found him. Nevertheless, he understands the offer for what it is, and he cannot help the warm affection that courses through him as the lingering bitterness finally fades from the back of his tongue. Seven years may have been a worthy wait, in the end, if it means he has more than a couple of days now.

“I do not think the Glittering Caves shall fall apart, if their Lord is needed for such a troubling investigation,” he says casually, tapping his index finger against the rim of his mug. “It is fortunate I have yet to break the habit of traveling in my mail and fully armed.”

Legolas inclines his head with all the courtliness of an Elf-Lord asking an ally for a favor. Only the gleam in his eyes suggests there might be another reason. “Yes, _mellon-nîn_ , that is very fortunate, indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My partner is firmly convinced that the lesser Lords also sitting at the kiddie table with Gimli and Legolas have been assigned such by Aragorn on purpose. Not due to their similar status as lesser Lords, though. No, my partner is convinced it is either to A) discourage them from trying to seek closer audience with him, or B) punish them for some annoyance they might have caused in the past, because let's face it: sharing a table with these two and their antics (not to mention the little attention they give all those Kings over there) has got to be a bit embarrassing.
> 
> On a completely different note--the parameters I have given myself for this fic make for a fun challenge most of the time, but it's chapters like these where I think I might be losing the fight against my inner romantic. We have a ways to go before this fic ends, and in truth my outline for this chapter was much, much more lighthearted. Yet, as soon as I started writing, this is what felt organic and appropriate. Hopefully this didn't feel too much like I was 'giving the game away', as it were.


	9. FO 13: Masterpiece in Nature

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It doesn't usually take this long to get to Ithilien from Minas Tirith, but Legolas doesn't mind.

Fourth Age, Year 13: En Route to Ithilien

Gimli traveled from Aglarond on a pony, and while the animal is as sturdy and reliable as her master, a swift creature she is not. The speed of their travel will be slowed, but it cannot be helped. Gimli will hear nothing of borrowing a horse of his own, and staunchly mistrusts the mount Legolas brought from Ithilien specifically for the sin of not being Arod, insofar as Legolas can tell.

Of course, Arod is far too old to run about with two riders as he used to. The old stallion is nearly twenty years old now, and comfortably retired in the half-wild pastures of Ithilien.

“I respect your desire for independence,” Legolas says as they leave the towering white stone of Minas Tirith behind in the cool, early light of morning. “However, it may please you to know that Percy is a direct descendant of Arod—one of the fine offspring our old friend has sired these last few years.”

The looks of reproach that Gimli keeps shooting the dappled brown stallion from over the top of his own pony’s head lesson somewhat in their intensity. “Be that as it may,” he says at last.

“Would you like to visit Arod, when we reach Ithilien to re-supply? To refresh your memory on his and Percy’s similarities.”

“I need to do no such thing,” Gimli says gruffly. “Horses dinnae have the perfect memory of Elves. I would be an interesting change to the rest of the scenery, and nothing more.”

Legolas smiles knowingly. “I think you would be surprised, _mellon_. In fact, I would bet upon it.”

“Well.” The Lord of Aglarond draws his shoulders back to sit up straight and with dignity. “It seems I shall have to prove you wrong.”

“It seems so.”

For a moment, this statement hangs in the air between their moving beasts, the ostensible end to the conversation. Then Legolas cannot maintain the illusion of resolute magnanimity going; it breaks with a laugh. “Arod will be overjoyed to see you once more,” he promises with warm reassurance. “I know it implicitly.”

“Yes. Well.” Gimli clears his throat in an attempt to maintain his composure. “It is nice to hear the beastie is still alive and well.”

The discussion shifts after that, as effortless and free flowing as a stream weaving its way down a mountainside. For all the letters they have sent one another, there is never a lack of things to say—even the retelling of anecdotes in person, with proper pacing and inflection, is far more rewarding than reading from a page.

Truly, there is no substitute for the comfort and laughter of being together.

They make camp in the orange and pink streaked splendor of an early summer sunset. Alone, Legolas and Percy would have been able to reach Ithilien by now, but due to the limitations of Qera the pony their pace today was leisurely. While Legolas is like Gimli in that he has not altered the habit of traveling fully armed, aside from his knives, bow, and the pack containing his ceremonial outfit, Legolas has no other supplies.

It is not such a trial, though. The grass below his feet is soft and thick from the spring rains and the last couple weeks of gentle sun, and all around them are tubers, mushrooms, dandelions and tender first year asparagus that may be foraged. A pheasant fat with the evidence of a productive spring roasted over a fire made of winter deadfall branches completes a hearty meal.

Even better: the trip from Aglarond to Minas Tirith is longer, which means Gimli carries spices and cooking gear. All in all, Legolas is far better pleased by an impromptu evening under the mild sky of a fledgling summer season than any person might have a right to be.

“I trust that you were right to say that Aglarond shall survive without her Lord for a while longer,” Legolas says as he seasons the pheasant with some of his companion’s spices: dried thyme and sage, in addition to the prerequisite salt and pepper.

“And yet there is question in your tone,” Gimli says, wry and knowing. Their camp is simple, and now that he has made the fire there is little else for him to do beyond keep Legolas company as their meal cooks amidst the flames. He paces to work the stiffness of the days’ riding out of his muscles, but not before digging his pipe from his pack.

“Curiosity, rather.” Satisfied with his work, Legolas impales the bird upon the collapsible steel spit he found amongst Gimli’s gear and settles it over the flames. Below the pheasant is an iron skillet rigged cleverly to catch the drippings for later cooking the vegetables in. Until Gimli, Legolas had not been aware such culinary setups existed, let alone in the apparent ubiquity they enjoyed amongst Dwarves.

Let it never be said that Dwarves lacked gadgets for every possible thing.

Gimli snorts. “I cannot say I look forward to the backlog I shall find upon my return.” He breathes deeply of his pipe and exhales smoke without further embellishment. Nevertheless, Legolas gleans the that he expects the workload to be ambitious; the air of mild resignation emanating from him seems only to confirm it. “But unless there is a cave-in, none of it will be so urgent that I would dismiss this opportunity.” It is then that he seems to realize the true nature of Legolas’ question. With a huff, he adds, “Fear not, no amount of lingering quest-camaraderie could distract me from my people if they needed me.”

Legolas laughs. He had been crouching in the grass on his haunches as he prepared the bird, but now he sits back with one knee in the air. He rests his forearm upon it and smirks as he says, “I know you speak reassurance in your way, Master Dwarf, but I fear lesser company might take issue with your phrasing.”

“Then how fortunate for me, Master Elf, that I find you the best and most pleasurable company,” he replies as the waning sun claims the crimson of his hair as the final touches for her display across the heavens. Gimli is backlit by gradients of the most brilliant and unattainable hues, at once apart and integral to the vision above their heads. When their gazes meet, the dark of his eyes is soft and significant, reflecting the warmth of the fire between them.

There are no others around for leagues in either direction; they might as well be the only two souls left on Middle-Earth.

A warm breeze whisks over their heads, rustling braids secured with the beads and leathers of their respective people. The reverie is broken, and Gimli hastens to jam his pipe between his lips and add, “Well, you and the beasts, but I hesitate to call Qera and Percy proper company. They are neither of them Arod.”

“Your sole companion by default, and thus the best by the same rule,” Legolas deadpans as he tips backwards and stretches out on the sweet-smelling grass so he may better take in the masterpiece above their heads. “Truly, I see why young Prince Eldarion chose you for his rival.”

And if he delights in the roar of laughter his retort inspires, or smiles tenderly to the first tentative flicker of starlight, then that is no one’s business but his own.

The rest of the evening passes without event, a pleasant stretch of banter and warm firelight clashing with the cold glow of the stars. The good weather holds all through their travels the next day, so that they come upon Ithilien well rested and in good spirits.

Since it is along the way to the Grand House where Legolas resides and conducts his Lordship, he steers them to the pastures first. The area is sprawling and vast, a dedicated league square that butts up against the edge of the territory. There is a stable and paddock for visiting beasts at risk of bolting, but the horses that belong to the Elves of Ithilien need no such barriers. They rove and graze at their own leisure, summoned by whistles or shouts of their names.

In this case, Legolas does not need to call for Arod. The aged stallion must have spotted their approach and trotted over to investigate, ears swiveling and tail flicking in curiosity.

“Hello, old friend,” Legolas says with a smile, swinging down from Percy as the younger horse wickers a greeting to his sire.

Legolas looks to Gimli, but his companion seems frozen in place upon his pony. Qera is placid, using this pause to duck her head and sniff experimentally at the grass and tender-leaved ground cover. Finding the scent to her liking, she takes a bite. Legolas knows she was not trained by Elves, but he has to wonder if such a complacent creature will need to be stabled at all.

“Durin’s sweet beard, there he is.” Gimli is thunderstruck, slow to climb down from Qera’s uncaring back. As soon as he is far enough from the pony Arod does not know, the white stallion does not hesitate to approach, eagerly pushing his wrinkled, aged muzzle into the dwarf’s stunned palm. “Look at that,” he murmurs. “That is you, isn’t it, beastie?”

“I told you he was alive and well,” Legolas says, only feigning the reproach in his voice. There is something immensely endearing about seeing such a powerful warrior so awed by an old horse.

Of course, the awe is severely diminished when Arod pushes his luck and tries to bite one of Gimli’s moustache braids. It earns him a shove and a stern word, but does not stop him from leaning down and rubbing his neck against the dwarf’s armored shoulder, using the steel to scratch himself.

“Well, I couldae done without that,” Gimli informs the animal with more of his usual curtness.

Arod snorts loudly, and in this case, Legolas does not think he needs to translate.

“Redoriel should still be here,” he says with a glance at the open stable door. “I can transfer Qera and Percy to her care, if you would like to spend some more time with Arod.”

At first it seems that Gimli is going to demur in favor of preserving his reputation as a crusty Dwarf Lord who cares not for beasts of burden, but then he looks at Arod again and nods, wordless.

Legolas needs no other encouragement. With a murmured word in Silvan, he sends Percy trotting to the stable to be brushed down, and it only takes a gentle tug on Qera’s reins to get her moving in the proper direction as well.

In the stable proper, his Horsemaster Redoriel is already making quick work of Percy’s minimal equipment. The dappled stallion ducks to drink from the trough next to her.

“We were expecting you yesterday, my Lord,” she remarks in Silvan as she turns around. Upon seeing the pony, and the questions in her demeanor change. “Ah, I can see why.”

“The Lord of the Glittering Caves of Aglarond shall be our guest for the next day or so, before we search to confirm the rumors of the Easterling holdout,” Legolas says. “I shall need Percy again by then—as for Qera here, I am not so sure. Our friend has no real comfort around horses, but I doubt there is much in this world that could make Qera move with haste.” Then he thinks of his conversation with Gimli at the feast, and adds, “What says our resident Horsemaster?”

Redoriel’s expression is neutral, as it had been when he was talking. However, he thinks he sees the slightest twitch of surprise at the question. She blinks before seeming to look upon the pony with new eyes. “It may be a lack of stimulation, instead of a broken spirit. I could try a few things with her, if you like.”

Though her tone gives nothing away, the proposal itself _does._ Never before would Redoriel have offered to do anything more than she had specifically been asked. Even this is not a particularly large gesture, as caring for the beasts of guests still falls neatly within her job description as Horsemaster, but the very fact it has been made at all is still significant, in its way.

Perhaps advice made for Dwarves may be applied across the cultural divide, after all.

“I would be grateful, if you had the time,” Legolas says before he loses his voice entirely to surprise.

Redoriel offers a small bow that imparts no more courtesy than someone of his station deserves. “Then I shall attempt to heal or reawaken her spirit, though I can make no guarantees as to the results,” she says. “And I shall have the visiting Lord’s bags delivered to a guest room when your possessions are delivered to yours.”

“Thank you, Redoriel.”

The Horsemaster nods in acknowledgement as much as dismissal. Legolas understands that he has received all that he is going to from her, and leaves Percy and Qera in her capable hands.

Outside, Gimli and Arod are still enjoying their long overdue reunion in the late afternoon sunshine. Well, Arod is. The retired war horse has just knocked Gimli’s helmet to the grass with a proud and decidedly deliberate toss of his head.

With a curse in Khuzdul, Gimli exclaims, “Now, what did you do that for? I know the Rohirrim raised you better than that! Are these the manners the Elves taught you?” When he makes to grab Arod’s head so as to lecture properly, the animal dances out of his reach with all the nimbleness of a colt and a sound that is best described as the equine version of laughter. Gimli swears in Khuzdul once more.

“You are belligerent in your old age, you accursed creature!”

Neither of them have noticed Legolas in his approach, but he is far too entertained by their antics to be offended. In all his years, he is hard pressed to think of a sight that was more precious to behold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the most-appropriately named [One Wiki to Rule Them All](https://lotr.fandom.com/wiki/Main_Page), Percy is the name of the stallion that played Arod in the movies. I originally went to the page to see if Arod had any canonical coloring, but when I saw that tidbit I couldn't resist working it in somewhere.


	10. FO 13: Growth and Salvage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli gets the grand tour of Ithilien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, the theme song for this fic is [Fireworks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YhTnn0Aw8UY), by nymano x Pandrezz.
> 
> I listen to a LOT of chillhop whilst writing, and I think this song is on several playlists, so that is probably why. Still, it stands out to me every time. To my ear, there is a lot of yearning and warmth in the chord progression, and that is what I am All About when it comes to this story.

Fourth Age, Year 13: Ithilien

In the eyes of Men, Ithilien is an ancient ruin, fully abandoned for generations. That is to say, while the region had been in steady decline for the better part of a millennia, the final stubborn stragglers fled approximately seventy years ago. Those that are still alive are now great-grandparents. Some are great-great-grandparents.

Even to a Dwarf, the generations of Men are blisteringly quick.

Nevertheless, it is true that Legolas’ letters during his first years in the province were dominated by anecdotes about moving rubble and assessing how much of the existing architecture could be salvaged. Some areas were better than others, and surveys continue even fourteen years later. The only difference is, now, there is an active city center again, and momentum is slowly but surely building as the habitable radius expands.

A second full day of travel had not been necessary to reach Ithilien, and they had arrived several hours before sunset. After Gimli’s reunion with Arod (who somehow _remembered_ _him;_ Gimli is still reeling from the beastie’s unmistakably warm reception), Legolas offered to use the remainder of the day showing Gimli around. As this is his first time visiting the region, Gimli readily agrees.

Best as Gimli can tell, the cities of Men are rarely begun with a cohesive long-term plan; little mind is paid to the placement of buildings beyond what may fit the space and what the owner desires. If one wants proof, they need look no further than the haphazard chaos that is Minas Tirith’s bottommost levels; there is a reason Gimli and his engineers took matters into their own hands.

This is what makes it so interesting to see what Legolas has done here. Elves, unsurprisingly, take a very long view when it comes to their planning; how a city center functions in one thousand years when the population has doubled and there is higher demand for space _matters_ to them, because they will likely still be there trying to navigate it. And, while it is certainly thrifty to salvage existing structures when building a colony, but will the slapdash organization of the region’s previous inhabitants be too much to overcome?

Is it easier to rework something that is preexisting (if problematic), or to build precisely what you want from nothing? Gimli and Legolas have been debating the finer points of this for the last decade.

He expects it to be, but the architecture of Ithilien is not what first steals Gimli’s notice. Rather, it is the air itself. The further they are from the stable, the more potent the scent upon the breeze becomes. In fact, as they walk Gimli becomes convinced that the stable is the only place in Ithilien that smells _different._

“The air is perfumed,” he says, nonplussed. Glancing about for a source, he finds nothing but the tender-leaved gardens split by gently meandering paths of repurposed masonry that they are currently walking through. “What am I smelling?”

“Right now, it is sweet wormwood,” Legolas tells him with a gesture to one of the plants lining their path. “I expect you shall also pick up on rosemary and lavender as we continue, or sages and mints if your nose is keen. Most grow wild here, but we have begun cultivating for exports of dried medicines and essential oils.”

That might explain why Gimli feels as though his beard has been dunked into a vat of cologne. “Samwise was not exaggerating when he called this land one of sweet-smelling herbs!”

Legolas smiles. “Indeed not—but you shall become nose-blind to it soon enough, _mellon_. I find I scarcely notice anymore.”

Gimli doubts this, but stranger things have happened, so he does not articulate his doubt aloud.

That is when he notices what Legolas and his people have built.

Men typically build structures for singular, discrete purposes—this one for lodging, this for medicine, this for diplomacy, etc. Elves, as Legolas has mentioned in letters past, prefer a network of multipurpose spaces that can be coopted by those with the most need. Lothlorien is a series of platforms and interconnecting bridges amidst the treetops, and the Greenwood sprawls out over three tiers: within the trees, along the surface of the earth, and within the shallow, naturally occurring cave system hollowed out by the River Running.

Ithilien’s approach to this disconnect between architecture and culture is made even more complex because the landscape is dominated primarily by towering pines and junipers that grow straight and tall and bushy as a cat’s tail—hardly ideal for the construction of multipurpose platforms. From what Gimli can see, Ithilien’s solution is twofold. First, longer distances between buildings are converted into open-air walkways such as Gimli and Legolas walk now, gardens filled with so many herbs and flowers and broad-leaved saplings that they double as relaxing green spaces. Shorter distances are bridged by the second method, twelve-foot-tall trellises of verdant ivies and bright flowers that grow so densely as to create broad, living hallways that protect those who take them from the harsh summer sun and frequent winter rain.

Gimli notices that the same vine-technique has been used to repair buildings whose roofs have collapsed, or patch breaks in non-load-bearing walls. It should have looked as though the city was losing the fight to time and the entropy of nature, but the gardens and ivy-hallways help to give the impression of compromise and harmony.

If Aglarond is made unique by the cooperation of Dwarves and Men, then Ithilien is very clearly the product of Men and Elves.

“This is like nothing I have ever seen,” Gimli remarks. It is not what a Dwarf might prefer, but he can still admire the ingenuity that goes into training the ivies to grow so tightly together, the craftsmanship evident in the way the plants are bonded and blended with the old masonry. He approaches one such building now. The entire side of it has been patched by a veritable living weave—and, now that he is closer, he can see evidence of the anchors on the edges of the stonework that the ivies cling to before digging into the earth, and the weight-supporting struts that the greenery cleverly hides. “And it holds well during storms?” he asks, partially askance.

Legolas makes no attempts to hide his smugness and pride at Gimli’s reaction. Nevertheless, when he answers his tone is neutral. “We are fortunate in Ithlien that storms are infrequent, and winters are mild, but they have fared well in what instances of poor weather we have experienced. I doubt this solution would be as effective on the slopes of the Lonely Mountain.”

“Ach, yes. I always seem to forget the Elves’ delicate constitutions when it comes to weather.”

Legolas lets out a hearty laugh. “Would my esteemed and doughty companion like to continue his explorations, or is he content to spend the rest of the day suckling upon his own feet?”

Now Gimli is laughing, even as he follows the good Lord of Ithilien to their next destination. “I pity the soul who only half-listens to you,” he says, still chortling. “They would hear so many pretty words without realizing the savagery of their arrangement.”

“No savagery, _mellon-nîn_ ,” says Legolas with a sincere shake of his head. “I am merely offering you opportunities to partake in your most favorite personal comforts, as any proper host might.”

The delivery of such banter might have been more convincing, if Legolas were not swiftly losing the battle against a mischievous smile.

“Ach! If only my good and proper host were not so accomplished at demonstrating this practice himself, I might not have mistaken it as a cultural norm and caused such a preposterous misunderstanding between our people!” Gimli smirks in satisfaction for the bright, unbridled laughter instigated by his theatrical cry. To hear Legolas laugh is a delight he never tires of; it is a sound bubbling with light and optimism, and to truly inspire it brings him much pride and warmth.

Gimli means to continue speaking, but he is interrupted by Elfsong. It had been soft enough at first, the ambient working music one might expect from an Elven settlement, but somewhere between the beginning of their banter and now the sound has swelled exponentially. Impossibly. A single voice simply cannot be so strong and far-reaching.

But then, these are Elves. Maybe they can?

Nonplussed, Gimli shakes his head. “Who is singing?” he says as he looks about—but no, the Elves he sees bustling about them are all conducting their business with purposeful strides, and those that do speak or sing are well within natural ranges.

“Cellimben is who you hear, but she is merely demonstrating what I am most excited to show you, _mellon-nîn,”_ Legolas replies—and indeed, there is a tension in his demeanor that was not there before. The deep blue of his eyes shines like exquisitely cut sapphire as he gestures for Gimli to look farther than before. “Do you recall when I asked about the acoustics of stone, and how that may be augmented?”

Gimli does, now that he mentions it. Suddenly that series of letters makes far more sense. “I thought you were making conversation out of idle interest,” he admits as he casts his gaze out. It is further than he expects, but as soon as he alights on the shape he begins to understand what Legolas is doing.

It is as unheard of as it is brilliant.

Ithilien is a sparsely forested land, and any Dwarf to look upon it would understand why. The landscape’s frequent sharp ridges speak to relatively recent geologic upset—which in itself is not surprising, as the region is hemmed in on two sides by mountain ranges. It makes for a multitude of small waterfalls as the region’s rivers navigate the chaos of sudden steep drops, and several wildly vaulted slabs of bedrock jutting out from the earth like haphazard tombstones. At Legolas’ prodding, Gimli had theorized that, were an uplifted slab big enough and stable enough, it might be carved into part of a building.

When he wrote that, the last thing he expected was to find one such slab turned into an acoustic sounding bowl, carved specifically to amplify song and throw it as far and wide as possible, or that before it would be two widely spaced lines of young rosewood trees planted like permanent concert attendees. What is this arrangement for?

“The interest was certainly theoretical, to begin,” Legolas says as they approach the bizarre set up. “But never was it idle. We began with smaller stones, of course—ones that may be carried to projects, if they were successful. This was carved once the designs were perfected in miniature; it took two years.”

That is when Gimli starts to understand. “I suspected the songs of Elves to be more than mere music,” he says, gazing upon the project with admiration and wonder.

“There are too few of us here,” his companion says by way of explanation. “Silvan songs are better suited for this work than those of the Sindar, but even with that advantage there is still too much to do. Now, instead of a team, we need only one to nurture and train this grove.”

They are close enough for Gimli to espy that the young rosewoods are, indeed, being trained into shape. There are barriers preventing them from growing too thick, but no such limitations to their width. They are also being grown around large upright rectangular guides placed at regular intervals.

Windows. The guides are so that there will be windows for air and light as the trees eventually grow into one another to form walls, and their uppermost boughs tangle together for the roof.

This crazy elf—he is _growing his own Great Hall_.

“Will it be primarily for concerts?” asks Gimli as he eyes the acoustic bowl still magnifying Cellimben’s singing. There is no relocating a feature like that, and if he knows Legolas at all there is also no plan to ignore it once the trees are big enough.

“Primarily? No, not at all,” the elf says easily. “It will also be a hall for feasts and weddings, or large diplomatic gatherings—any event that requires a large amount of space may be held here, and any who make announcements beside the amplifying stone shall be heard clearly by all. I admit it shall be excellent for music, though. Rosewood is often made into instruments, and the walls shall be made of it.”

Literally.

They are fully arrived, now. Cellimben bows slightly to Legolas in greeting, but does not stop singing. She is stationed next to the immense stone bowl upon a platform covered with another trellis of vines to shade her from the sun. While she is currently standing, there is a stool and a small table next to her, boasting water, honey, a firestarter and a small teapot balanced atop a thick clay bowl filled with softly glowing embers.

Gimli looks to the rosewood closest to them. A small part of him is disappointed that he cannot see it growing in real time, but he can admit that the tree looks closer to twenty years old than the five or six it must be. It is lean and tall, pruned so that there are no leaves below a certain point. Even its branches are carefully trained to only grow on one side of the bole; a full one-hundred-and-eighty degrees is nothing but smooth, unblemished bark.

Just because the woods of Ithilien are not suitable for Elven structure does not mean wood-Elves will abandon the concept of living amongst the trees entirely. He might have known.

Gimli shakes his head in amazement at the sheer ingenuity and scale of this project. “And I thought a subterranean greenhouse was ambitious,” he mutters.

“Only because it is, _mellon,”_ Legolas reminds him, and while he tries to remain deadpan, his tone is marred with far too much warmth to be convincing.

“You forget I have a small army of Hobbits applying themselves to the project.”

“But alas: they are, every one of them, Tooks.” Legolas flashes him a significant look, and Gimli is forced to acquiesce that a small army of Tooks has been a bit of a double-edged sword. As it turns out, Pippin and his antics are as quintessentially Took-ish as it gets, and Gimli has never been more keenly aware of that as he has been these last few years. For as charming and industrious as the Tooks of Aglarond are, there are instances where they cause as many problems as they help to solve.

“Dinnae remind me,” he grouses at length, and Legolas laughs.

“Speaking of the wonders of Aglarond, I wonder if there is a matter you might be able to help with,” the Elf says conversationally. He waves a graceful hand at the young trees around them. “For as wonderful as rosewood is, we are aware that their living bark and leaves will dampen the sound and its clarity, particularly over distances. Our intention is for the Rosewood Hall to be a meeting place when announcements are necessary, so all may hear at once, which means we are looking for ways to counteract these dampening effects.” At this, he looks to Gimli. “You mentioned once that crystal may be useful for throwing sound, and I happen to know that Aglarond has some very fine stock.”

There is something about the way he says that last which causes Gimli to falter hard. He glances at the still-singing Cellimben, and she returns his gaze with open curiosity. Clearly, she has no qualms with watching these interactions as though they are her only entertainment.

Well, if the alternative is the trees in front of her, Gimli supposes he cannot blame her for thinking so. That, however, does not make him any more comfortable with making a spectacle of himself. The Lords of Ithilien and Aglarond may have a famous friendship, but they also have upstanding reputations to maintain amongst their people.

He shuffles his weight and clears his throat loudly as he looks away. When he responds, it is in as pragmatic a manner as possible, “Pure crystal is what it is, Legolas; there is no difference between one mine and the next. For the distance it will travel, it would behoove you to check more local suppliers.”

“Perhaps so, but the cut must be both practical and pleasing to look upon,” Legolas says, unfazed. He looks directly at Gimli as he speaks, and there is no second-guessing the resolve in his features. “And that, _mellon-nîn_ , is a feat I would trust solely to the fine craftsmen of your realm. Upon this I am firmly decided: it shall be Aglarond, or none at all.”

Legolas is not trying to make anyone uncomfortable, Gimli realizes as they look at each other. He is not asking for that which cannot be done, or attempting to say something else with these words. He means precisely what he says: he believes the craftsmanship of Aglarond to be the best in this particular field, and he shall settle for nothing less for the jewel of Ithilien that he is literally growing from nothing.

The fact the request comes from a genuine evaluation rather than nepotism actually makes the declaration more potent, instead of less. A searing heat rip from the crown of Gimli’s head down to the tips of his toes. Flattery is for politicians, but sincerity like this makes him wish for things he has no names for. He wonders if this is Legolas’ retaliatory tit for the tat Gimli himself made yesterday at their camp site.

Gimli’s gaze flicks to the singing Cellimben again. At least _his_ untoward remark had borne no witnesses.

“Well,” he says, and he plays off the residual gruffness in his voice for humor. Blood over stone. Appearances must be maintained. “In that case, I suppose Aglarond shall simply fulfill the order when the time comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Other than some notes about swift running rivers and sweet herbs, and that Legolas makes Ithilien into a nice dang place before sailing for Aman, there are no canonical remarks made about what it's like under his leadership. The rest is all my own invention, sprinkled with some Nature Nerdery in a feeble attempt to legitimize my bachelor's in Forestry and Soil Science.
> 
> I am now torn about whether I would like to live in Aglarond or Ithilien. Maybe I should Persephone this shit.


	11. FO 13: From Ashes Returned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our protagonists finally get on that search for the elusive holdout of Easterlings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One can only hope that I have managed to entertain you with warmth and laughter up until this point. Now, as we conclude this arc, we begin to explore the less lighthearted consequences of this story's premise.

Fourth Age, Year 13: Between Ithilien and the Foothills of the Ash Mountains/Ered Lithui

They set out early the next day. Percy is characteristically eager to begin his latest adventure, pacing and prancing in his impatience, and Qera is… much the same, actually.

“It is not a matter of broken spirit,” is Redoriel’s nonplussed conclusion as they collect the pony from the stable in the early morning light. “She truly is as content and unrushed as she seems.”

The Horsemaster of Ithilien speaks in Silvan, the language she is most comfortable with. Legolas suspects her Westron is not fluent enough to convey these sentiments without significant pauses, and so does not begrudge the need to translate to Gimli.

It is just as well, because he couches the matter as one of casual observation and not the result of surreptitious investigation. Gimli does not need to know of their worries about his pony, or the lack of trust in his discernment of livestock that their actions imply.

“I could have told you that,” Gimli replies as he takes the nonchalant animal’s reins. “I chose her for her disposition.”

Redoriel’s features register confusion at this response, clearly assuming that she misunderstood—which, considering Gimli’s thick and unfamiliar accent, is entirely possible. When Legolas translates, however, she seems even more nonplussed than before. “Why ever for?”

“Because I dinnae have time to go chasing beasts like that around,” Gimli says frankly. He gestures to Percy’s excited fidgeting. “Qera isnae inclined to spook or bolt, and she requires little guidance for most everything else. What Dwarf could ask for more?”

Once Legolas relays this, Redoriel visibly begins to understand Gimli’s rationale, though Legolas can see she does not agree with it. Nevertheless, if anyone knows that there are good matches to be found amongst peoples and horses of all personalities, it is a Horsemaster. “Who am I to question the Lord of Aglarond’s contentment with his mount?” she says diplomatically. Then she bows with no more or less courtesy than is required of her. “You will find a week’s worth of rations in your supplies, though it is unlikely you should need it all. Safe travels, my Lords.”

“Thank you for sharing your time and knowledge,” Legolas says once the translations have been made, inclining his head in acknowledgement.

Redoriel does not give this unnecessary deferment to her expertise any verbal confirmation, but there is a small pause of consideration before she goes back to her work, officially signaling the end of the conversation for everyone. It is still better than her usual reception, Legolas notes optimistically. He resolves to continue following Gimli’s advice on this matter upon his return.

“You suspected my pony was broken?” asks Gimli once they have set out in the direction the most recent reports of Easterling activity.

Well, perhaps _asks_ is not the right term. There is no uncertainty in Gimli’s tone—he knows enough to read between the lines of the conversation with Redoriel, and see that Legolas is the catalyst behind it.

There is also a sharpness to his words that causes a cold spark of alarm to sting the back of Legolas’ neck. For all that Gimli prefers to keep his feet on the ground, the implication that he was too stupid to see whether or not his pony was whole—or, at the very least, to obtain a professional opinion upon the animal’s acquisition—is one he is not taking kindly to.

Legolas, it seems, has accidentally trod upon the toes of the mighty beast known as Dwarven Pride.

“I merely found it strange that you would prefer a mount with such a subdued personality, when you clearly still hold such affection for Arod,” he says, trying to placate.

One glance at Gimli’s thunderous scowl lets him know that his attempts at levity have been taken the wrong way. “You dinnae think to ask me?” the dwarf snaps. “Instead of cavorting about behind my back, as a nursemaid cleans up after a toddler?”

“Nursemaid!” cries Legolas. He thought Gimli might bristle somewhat at being covertly investigated, but he never would have anticipated things to escalate like this. “Your equine apprehensions are well documented, Gimli. Can you blame me if I questioned whether you might notice the difference?”

“Of course I would notice.” The sheer rumbling indignation and fury in his voice causes Percy’s flesh to jump in surprise, though the dappled stallion does not break stride and shy away. Beneath Gimli, Qera reacts not at all, plodding onwards with all the inexorable matter-of-factness of the sun crossing the sky. “I spent months on the same horse with an Elf who treated him like he was one of the Free Peoples! Creature of darkness and stone though I may be, I still maintain working eyes and ears, and a mind capable of learning new things!”

This is about more than Qera, Legolas realizes. The finer points of the pony arguments are no ruse, to be certain—Gimli is genuinely offended to be treated as though he is not adult enough to conduct the simple business of buying livestock. There is more to it, though, nuances to be found in the very fact Legolas would pry into the nature of the animal at all.

Elves place far more value upon the vitality of animal spirits than Dwarves or Men. Everything, from training to philosophy, is different—and, while it is not strange that Legolas might look upon Qera’s remarkably nonchalant nature, assume the worst, and wince for the harsh methods of other races, asking his Horsemaster to see what might be done belies a much more intimate concern. An Elf less invested in the rider would have written it off as a loss with a prayer for the pony, and nothing more. This, coupled with the flimsy excuse that is this trip…

That Gimli knows enough to see these intricacies is a problem in itself. It is a sign that he knows too much, and that is only exacerbated by how uncharacteristically clumsy they have been with each other these last few days. Never, since they came to their unspoken agreement, have either of them slipped up this much, or in front of so many witnesses.

Seven years apart, it seems, has done them no favors at all.

There is no mistaking the old ache that has flared up behind Legolas’ breastbone, sudden and hot like a sleepy fire that has been fed fresh kindling. At this point he knows not how to explain himself without saying something that cannot be taken back, or inadvertently making another troubling faux pas.

He has to do something, though. He must correct course and bring their interactions— _his_ actions—back into acceptable territory, before any more disastrous mistakes are made.

“You are right,” Legolas says, choosing his words carefully and making his tone properly repentant. “I am not giving your noteworthy powers of cognition and observation their due in this matter. For that, Gimli, I am sorry.”

There is a long pause as Gimli digests this excuse—or, perhaps, susses out an appropriate response to it. The air between them bristles uncomfortably.

“Aye, you did not,” he grumbles into the thick vibrance of his beard, as curmudgeonly as ever as Dwarf was. There is also, if Legolas is not mistaken, a note of remorse for his own part in this mess. “But I dinnae speak up to kill our rapport, Master Elf, merely to remind you of my own independence. I know you only asked after Qera to ensure I got my money’s worth.”

Yes, the money. Of course.

It is a poor excuse, to be certain, but they have made do with far less before.

“I would grieve to see you suffer poor investment,” Legolas says readily. “Good livestock is far too valuable.”

Gimli merely grunts and avoids eye contact. He takes a long breath and his great shoulders roll beneath their protective armor, causing the shifting steel to clank and reflect the crisp morning sunlight like mirrors.

Legolas grants his companion the silence his body language is asking for, privately grateful for the time to reestablish his own equilibrium. He tangles his fingers into Percy’s loose mane and uses the warmth and strength of his equine friend as a crutch while he slowly coaxes the ache within him to embers once more. For his part, Percy temporarily flicks an ear towards Legolas in silent question, wondering at his master’s sudden unease. Legolas gives the stallion a reassuring pat on his muscular neck and murmurs in Silvan that that all is well, and Percy’s ear swivels forward again.

After several quiet minutes of birdcalls from the tops of the pines and the plodding of Percy and Qera’s hooves, Gimli says, “It has occurred to me that I never asked what evidence there has been of these Easterlings we seek.”

His voice is no longer strained or angry, but rather offhand and casual: his own version of course correction.

“A fine question, but truly there is not very much to tell,” Legolas admits. The words are clumsy at first, unaccustomed to a flat, neutral conversation devoid of layered implications. The more he speaks, though, the easier it becomes to adjust to this new normal. “There have been two arrows with familiar arrowheads and unfamiliar fletching, and three instances of partially obscured tracks that seem to lead east, towards the foothills of Ered Lithui. We have never seen smoke or signs of settlement, or evidence of their presence beyond that—but the prints and the presence of local materials in the construction of the arrows speak to far more recent traffic than their retreat fifteen years ago.”

Gimli frowns and looks out along the length of the mountain range of Ephel Dúath, which they are keeping to their right as they skirt around the boundaries of what used to be Mordor. If it were evening, Legolas might assume that his companion could see as far as the area formerly known as Morannon, the Black Gate, and the acrid pit that swallowed it whole. However, as Dwarves’ sight is greatly reduced during the daylight hours, he can only speculate as to what Gimli might be looking for.

“With the Outer Fence and the Ash Mountains positioned between them and Ithilien, the Easterlings might have been able to expand their borders without anyone’s knowing,” Gimli says at length, betraying his silence as contemplation of logistics and a mental map of the area.

“It is possible,” Legolas allows. “Neither Faramir nor myself have the scouts to spare to keep thorough watch beyond Morannon, and even then we have not watched as closely as anyone might prefer.”

“But to have mustered such force, so soon after the losses of the War of the Ring…” Gimli shakes his head in doubt. “Even Men do not age so quickly.”

“They do not, though this movement likely would not have required much by way of force, with no patrols of the area.”

Gimli is quiet for a moment before confessing, “I have no proper concept of the populations of the East. I know they have land enough, to look at a map, but as to its habitability I cannot say.”

“Nor do I. For as many bodies as they supplied for the final war, it might be that the Easterlings provided Sauron only a small fraction of their population. Or, it is possible he seduced them to give him much more, and their loss was crippling.”

A silence once again falls over them, far more contemplative than the first. There is no verbalized speculation as to what kind of home their defeated enemies might have come back to—but alas, no one needs to for the discomfiting question to taint the air between them.

The further they go from Ithilien and the influence of the wood Elves, the more apparent the scars of Sauron’s influence become. Tall, proud spears of cedar and juniper give way to sparse, twisted shadows of their own potential, grimly refusing to succumb to the poison that sours the soil. Then even the tenacity of trees is bested by the lingering spectre of the Dark Lord, and the landscape is barren, chattering with gravel and pieces of shale that have chipped off the tortured formations of pitch-black volcanic rock.

There is still ash in the air from Mount Doom’s most recent eruption, and the inside of Legolas’ nostrils stings from the stench of brimstone. His skin crawls, and the inside of his throat prickles as though he has swallowed a fistful of stinging nettles.

For all that the soul of this land has been desecrated by Sauron’s foulness, and hesitates not to reflect this sickness and malice back to them, it is the emptiness that Legolas hates most. Nothing moves, nothing grows, nothing _lives_ here _._

How could he have been so naïve to think that something this tormented might one day heal? How is it possible for anything to heal when nothing here _survives?_

Percy’s ears are flat against his skull, and while they are not moving at a punishing pace the stallion’s breathing is labored with barely contained panic. If there is a rockslide, or if some other unfortunate creature shifts amongst the shale, Legolas knows his horse will bolt.

Even Qera—unshakable, placid Qera—even she is moving faster, trying to leave the horrors of this broken place behind.

They travel longer than they should, and make camp in the very last, smokey vestiges of daylight, but no one—Dwarf or Elf or beast—seems to regret the choice to put as much space between Morannon and themselves as possible. Legolas is grateful for the ample water packed into their saddle bags, because there is nothing here that he might trust Qera or Percy to drink safely. They have Ered Lithui on their right, now, instead of Ephel Dúath. It is an improvement, certainly, but the air here is still acrid and stale. The land is still barren and scarred.

There is no discrete discussion about sleeping in shifts, merely the assumption that it shall be done. Legolas takes the first shift so as to use the final slivers of light to his advantage, just as Gimli takes advantage of the full dark for the second.

The last time Legolas was this close to Morannon, the sky was so full of smoke and Sauron’s darkness that there was no hope of seeing the true night sky. Now, though the air is still hazy and foul, he can make out the feeble twinklings of the cosmos gazing back at him.

So something can survive here, after all.

Has he truly forgotten the timescales of healing? It has only been fifteen years since this land was liberated from evil—that is hardly enough time for anything _._ What has _he_ done in the last fifteen years?

Gimli grunts and rolls over, as restless as he has been all evening. The orange embers of the fire they made mostly to reassure themselves that they could still make anything are offering just enough glow to tease some of the gold from his vibrant hair.

With a small sigh, Legolas lifts his chin so he may see the sky once more. These days he is so fully aligned with the timescales of mortals that there are moments he forgets any other is possible. Such is the urgency of knowing you are finite, he supposes.

The morning comes late and grey, the sun a deeply reluctant participant in the task of looking upon this land. Spirits are tenuous, at best, and they choose to mount up and press on instead of eating. It turns out to be the right decision, as the heartiness of their demeanors grows with the space they put between themselves and the entrance to the Black Lands.

Legolas did not think he would be so joyous to see such twisted, tortured looking cedars again. In comparison to what they just left behind, however, these beautiful trees stand as proud heralds of life and vitality. He watches with eager relief as life on the fringes of Mordor grows hardier and fuller. It never quite _recovers,_ the way the life surrounding Ithilien has, but there is only so much protection the relatively short height of Ered Lithui can offer.

And that is when he sees it.

“Gimli.” He halts Percy with a soft tug of the mane and a squeeze of his knees, and stays Gimli and Qera with his free hand. Squinting in disbelief, Legolas leans over Percy’s neck.

“You see something,” Gimli says. It is not a question.

“Yes. They are leagues off yet, and the air here is hazy at long distances, but they—” He stops himself, unable to properly describe what he perceives.

Gimli needs no further clarification. “We shall venture closer,” he says. “With your sight in the day and mine in the night, we shall never be near enough that the eyes of Men may spy us.”

They are cautious in their advance anyway, guiding their mounts over fallen leaves and pine needles to soften and mask their prints where they can, keeping away from the pitiful, trickling streams that serve as the only watercourses for leagues around. Legolas does pause to act on his suspicion, though, leaving the rest a fair distance off while he goes to inspect one of the streams alone.

The water stinks faintly of sulfur, but against all odds it runs clear. Once boiled, it is probably fine to drink and wash with. There are also tracks and droppings of small wildlife in the mud.

Gimli gives him a curious look upon his empty-handed return, but Legolas shakes his head. “I have a theory, only. I would not speak it until there is greater certainty, for fear of misleading you.”

By the end of the next hour, they begin to see stumps, freshly cut. When Gimli notices evidence that large stones have recently been relocated, Legolas knows they are both thinking the same thing.

“Can you see clearly yet?” asks Gimli. His tone is soft, though they are still the only two souls around for leagues.

“Yes,” Legolas says. He does not have to squint anymore. “It is as I suspected.”

Percy and Qera are stopped and dismounted, then, for there is no need to continue.

“If the Easterlings had pushed their border out, they would have cut down every tree here,” Gimli says reasonably. “The need for lumber would have been too great.”

“Their border is not relocated. It is as it was,” Legolas agrees. There is a heaviness upon his shoulders that he does not fully comprehend, a disappointment which bears no name. “These people—a hundred, perhaps—have simply stopped several dozen leagues short of it, just beyond patrol and sight.”

“Tucked away from the allies of Gondor and Rohan, far beyond the sight of the Dwarves and the Elves.” Gimli’s voice is a low, rolling rumble, nearly ruminative in its cadence.

“These lands will never be healed and plentiful, in their lifetime,” Legolas says, gazing out at the half-ravaged landscape. “But the water is potable, and there are trees enough for a few sturdy buildings. I see signs that there is game here, as well—not much, but something.”

Gimli says nothing for a moment. Instead, he sinks down until he is kneeling in the shifting grey soil, both of his palms splayed out over the earth. He bows his head, and seems to be listening for something. Searching, perhaps? Legolas knows that Dwarves can hear the songs of the earth the same way Elves can hear the songs of trees.

At length, he lifts his head and looks Legolas in the eye. “There is not much left that Mordor did not scour clean, but there is still a small amount of iron ore. Enough to supply a village with tools, if you can find it.”

They do not say that, if these Easterlings are choosing to eke out a living in this dismal place, it must mean this place is better than whence they came. They do not articulate admiration that these people have so clearly decided to make their own way, though it be isolated and difficult.

They do not say that they understand the temptation.

There are some things that need never be spoken aloud.

It is after the noon hour, though the haze and cloud cover make it difficult to determine how long. Without formal conversation, Legolas and Gimli disperse to do what they can. Legolas walks among the struggling woodlands and offers what comfort and reassurance he can to the trees here, singing to them songs of rain and a greener tomorrow. They are too young to know the songs of Elves, but they are also older than they appear, and weary of their long fight against malevolence. Nevertheless, they speak to him readily enough, intrigued and encouraged by this voice that is not dark and grating and asking for too much.

The singing and conversation take him farther from Percy and Qera than he intends to go, and by the time he returns Gimli has already set up camp. Half a league away or so—enough of a distance that a Man would not notice the connection—he spies a series of innocuous but clever markings that were not there before, commonplace evidence of iron ore being nearby.

Legolas does not remark upon these signs, just as Gimli does not remark upon the singing. They merely pick at their rations and sit without touching beside the fire.

Eventually, Gimli speaks, “Pity we found no enemies to slay. It has been some time since I’ve swung my axes for anything besides practice.”

Legolas snorts at this quintessentially Dwarvish change of subject. “Perhaps it is time you find joy in the bloodlessness of your practice sessions, _mellon,”_ he says. “The likelihood of finding enemies in a time of peace was always going to be low.”

There is a significant pause that stymies Legolas, and then he realizes this is the first time he has called Gimli anything except his proper name since their argument on the outskirts of Ithilien. It is only two days passed, now, but the days might as well have been decades.

The understanding that his companion had taken that conversation to mean he would no longer be _mellon-nîn_ snags upon the ache in Legolas’ chest with abrupt and savage barbs. Suddenly, it is all he can do to keep his breathing even as the yearning rears up like an angry bear, feral in the face of not even being allowed that small concession.

Legolas keeps his gaze trained on the small, flickering fire as he struggles with the unspoken provocation, this insinuation that he could simply _stop_ —

Except he did. Perhaps omitting the nickname had started as an overcorrection in the face of all their recent slipups, but that is not what it has become, these last few days. Legolas knows how he uses the allegedly casual endearment, knows what it has come to represent; he knows what it will be taken to mean, if he stops saying it. And after a discussion like the one that preceded the omissions…

No wonder they have had nothing to say to one another. By not speaking one word, Legolas has told Gimli everything he might need to.

There are severe drawbacks to relying on implication and pretext for all your most intimate conversations. It is far, far too late now, but Legolas has to wonder if deniability was really worth _this_.

His mind flashes to Ithilien, to its hybrid buildings of plant and stone, its newly established gardens, the vision he has for the Rosewood Hall—to the amplifying stone, the slowly thawing rapport with Redoriel, the crystals that will glitter like dew after a long rain—to his father, and Dorwinian diplomacy, and long generations of wrongs and misunderstanding that cannot be healed by a simple act or declaration.

There is no going forward with what he wants. Legolas knows that. His people and his realm and the time they both need cannot be eschewed; he does not have the constitution to disavow them and live in isolation, as that secret village of Easterlings have.

This does not, however, mean he can go backwards. Just because he cannot take the path himself does not mean he will stop laying the groundwork for it.

He cannot move forward, and he will not go backward. It is an uncomfortable predicament, yes. However, discomfort does not mean Legolas must feed falsehoods to himself or the one other soul who knows what it is like to be where he stands.

“Would that there were enemies to be found, and the story was one with a simple and easy end,” Legolas murmurs. He looks away from the flames and to his companion, imploring. “And would that I were a faultless mouthpiece, able to perfectly herald the tale when it is most needed.”

“Aye, and would that everything the miner strikes be mithril.” Gimli lets out a loud, heavy sigh that should be full of exasperation, and instead sounds so much more like longing. When he surveys Legolas, his gaze is smoldering and guarded. “Imperfect heraldry is one thing, but never have I been one to beg for stories of what is not there.”

It is as close to outright as either of them are going to come, and the question itself does not wound half as much as the reality of Gimli not implicitly knowing the answer. For a moment all Legolas can do is look on in dismay, his throat tight and the angry bear within his breast taking punishing swipes with sharp claws. He does not know how he might have prevented the hurt he sees and feels any more than he might have prevented this conversation from escalating as it has.

“Flawed mouthpiece I may be, I have no taste for fictions,” he says, voice hoarse from the rawness of the truth he speaks, as well as the injury of not being permitted to speak all of it. “If I say so to you, _mellon-nîn_ , I hope that you continue to believe the heart of what I say, if not the confusing trappings.”

There is a long, tense stillness, and then the guardedness in Gimli’s demeanor is replaced by the warmth Legolas has come to cherish so well. “Aye,” he says softly. “And I shall endeavor to ask more questions of the trappings, if needs must, instead of presuming to understand them on the outset.”

The relief washes over Legolas, and it is all he can do to keep himself from being swept away by the current. “Please do,” he says instead. “For the heart of it is always true, _mellon_. Always.”

They spend the rest of the night rebuilding their rapport. Shy, at first, with every word underlined by an unspoken apology. By the morning, the atmosphere between them is clear and clean like the air after a hard rain. The bear has also stopped its raging and hunkered back down, as content as it may be with the understanding they have reached.

For all that things between them are much the same as before—virtually unchanged, to an outsider’s view—interacting with Gimli feels different. There is a newness to it, almost; a new depth that has been reached, where before they might have skimmed only the surface. Even another night spent altogether too close to Morannon is not quite as disturbing as the first time.

Legolas is only able to discern why when they are back in Ithilien on the third day, and it is once again early morning, and Gimli and Qera are fixing to travel back to Aglarond after a fruitless search for a camp of enemy holdouts.

“When you return to your Glittering Caves, think of something new to write to me, _mellon,”_ he says, and that one word feels more significant now than it ever has. “By now you have addressed everything I put to you in my last, do not think it has escaped my notice!”

 _It is the confirmation_ , he thinks then. It is the knowledge that their association is not merely a crutch that carried them through their quest, or even the stresses and tribulations of establishing new settlements. They have both reiterated what this is, as outright as they ever will.

It is enough. It has to be, because the alternative is nothing at all.

Gimli scoffs. “Ach! I know you use my letters for their poetry, and to make yourself sound cleverer than you are. If you want pretty words to show off to your peers, Master Elf, then commission them from me.”

Who knows when they will see one another again? The next event so important as to require the presence of all allies, ostensibly, but there are no timelines for those events. The distance between their two colonies is not vast, truly, but it is large enough that they cannot visit one another regularly, even if they had the luxury of taking that much time off from their respective duties. Just this little adventure—such as it was—has its consequences. Legolas knows he has a sizable backlog of decisions and paperwork awaiting him as soon as Gimli leaves, and he knows Gimli has the equivalent of that in Aglarond.

Genuinely not knowing when or where they will find each other again stings acutely, but that has no bearing on Legolas’ enjoyment of the quip. He laughs, openly and without sadness. “If you have the time to take poetry commissions, then I fear for the state of Aglarond!” When Gimli’s response is nothing but a dirty look, Legolas laughs again. “Has Gimli Silvertongue finally been bested?”

It takes Gimli a moment to recover, but then he swings himself upon Qera’s back and retorts, “I suppose you shall have to see in my letter. Woe be to you, having to wait long months for it.”

“Ah, so he stalls. A coward’s way out, if ever there was one.” Nevertheless, Legolas uses their last, precious moments together to embrace the other on his pony and firmly clasp a powerful arm. “Safe travels, _mellon-nîn,”_ he murmurs as their eyes meet and he feels an acknowledging squeeze. “Until we meet again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might comfort you to know I hurt MYSELF writing this chapter. A little bit, anyway.
> 
> Still going to keep shouting from my contrary little hilltop, though.


	12. FO 26: A Brief Detour To Rohan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody wants a diplomatic incident at a birthday party.

Fourth Age, Year 26: Rohan

When one is a Lord of his own realm—particularly a newfound realm, with alliances and trade routes that are not, say, hundreds of years old—appearances are everything. Politicking is all about who you know and, lacking that, who you can pretend to be friendly with. On any given year there are multiple events that Gimli attends not out of any real affection for the hosts or the subject of celebration, but for the connections and indications of loyalty and goodwill his presence forges.

Thankfully, this is not one such occasion. Despite the… tension of their initial introduction, these days Gimli and Èomer have a fine friendship, and Gimli was quite pleased to be invited to the celebration of the Rohirrim King’s eldest son Elfwine reaching his majority.

Animosity seems to be the way all of Gimli’s best relationships begin, in hindsight. He and Legolas initially hated each other, and now their friendship is so famous that folks can hardly speak of one without bringing up the other.

All of which is to say, he very much appreciates that his friends have a habit of coming up with Royal Excuses for large celebrations that require the attendance of their allies every five years or so.

Gimli finds Edoras much changed from these last decades of prosperity. Buildings have been expanded and renovated, sculptures and carvings have been restored to their historic glory. Of course, the Horse Lords would be remiss if their stables were not of rivaling opulence to Meduseld, and it has never been so true as it is now. Gimli rather thinks the horses and ponies have been given a more magnificent shelter than he has, but he is hard pressed to find offense in it. What else can one expect from the Horse Lords, after all?

Besides, for all that the most luxurious lodgings are given to the beasts of burden, the Rohirrim’s feasts and celebrations are the most raucous. The food is greasy and well-seasoned, the ale is ever-flowing, little regard is given to seating arrangements, and their music is lively and easy to dance to—all told, the Rohirrim are nearly Dwarven in their celebrations. If for no other reason that, Gimli can forgive them the rest.

As a warrior and one of the Nine Walkers, Gimli had been able to eat his fill and drink to excess without much care for how it looked. If he wanted to consume the better part of a barrel of ale in competition with Legolas or some other tragically underwhelming soul, and wake up the next morning to find himself sprawled out on the floor under the same table he feasted from, then he had been free to do it. Oh, what a charmed life that was! He had scarcely noted his own good fortune.

The distinguished Lord of Aglarond, on the other hand, may never behave so irresponsibly. Even in celebrations there are deals to be struck, impressions to be made. The ease of being able to negotiate in person rather than by letter works much to Gimli’s advantage; Aglarond always fares better after events such as these than were he not to go. His own ambitions will settle for nothing less.

So it is that Gimli takes many small sips of the Rohirrim’s good ale, but rarely finishes more than a tankard or two. He laughs and banters with his quarry with all of the loudness Men and Elves associate with Dwarven drunkenness, and he gets what Aglarond wants and needs from his target nearly every time. He thinks the late King Dáin Ironfoot would be very proud of how he performs—but there again, it is by observing how old Ironfoot conducted his business that Gimli has gleaned the tricks of his own, so perhaps that is no surprise.

His latest negotiation ends, and an exceedingly friendly and buttered up dignitary from the Reunited Kingdom pushes away from the bench they are both sitting on with the intention of making nice with other guests. The Man swaggers in a manner betraying his mistaken impression that he has gotten the better end of this new bargain, and Gimli does not bother to correct him. Rather, he makes a surreptitious note in the journal resting in his lap, jotting down the details of the agreement, and sketching out a rough timeline in which to follow up with a formal contract. He rewards himself for a job well done with a hearty swig of the ale in front of him.

He nearly chokes on said swig when Legolas chooses this moment to materialize behind him and slap down a piece of paper.

“Look.”

The Elf’s eternally youthful face is under painstaking control, but his voice is a little too forceful, and it wavers on the end of the word as though the language were teetering on the edge of a precipice. As Gimli sets his ale down, he can see the tightness at the corners of his companion’s eyes, and a very slight tremor in his shoulders. He is paler than usual.

Legendary friendship notwithstanding, onlookers would likely interpret this interaction as Legolas sharing pertinent information regarding a potential or existing matter between Aglarond and Ithilien. Indeed, that seems to be Legolas’ intent. Gimli knows him well enough to recognize the barely suppressed fury and anxiety for what it is, though, and it is that which truly gives him pause. A sense of cold dread quickly sops up the good cheer he previously entertained.

Something has gone very wrong.

Before him is a chart of sleeping accommodations. The Rohirrim do not believe in servants taking you to your quarters, choosing instead to post maps like these in easy to access places so guests may cater to themselves. Gimli has been too busy negotiating to check the chart for himself, choosing instead to delegate the task to his nephew and successor, Ghríc, so the lad could learn how things are done in Rohan.

It seems that had been a mistake, because the official Rohirrim interpretation of his renowned friendship with the Lord of Ithilien includes them sharing a set of rooms. Ghríc—carousing on the other side of Meduseld with the newly-adult Prince Elfwine with all the ease of one who has spent the last several years in the company of Men—certainly never mentioned it.

As if they do not make things hard enough for themselves, without anyone’s help. Certainly, there is no joy to be found in beating back the raking claws of temptation.

Feeling vaguely ill, Gimli mutters an oath more befitting of a warrior than a Lord, and takes another bracing gulp of his ale. Ghríc is uncommon canny, which means he was either too excited about being here to look at the map closely, or he did not see why Uncle Gimli might take issue with these sleeping arrangements.

And _Gimli_ does not, true enough, but the Lord of Aglarond _must._

It seems some reeducation for young Ghríc is in order. He makes note of that in his journal before smacking it shut.

“Gimli.” Legolas has not taken a seat, because to do so would give the impression of complacency. Instead he looms over Gimli’s seated form in a graceful and powerful arc, his palm braced upon the offensive map.

He is pressing down so hard the color has bleached from his knuckles to showcase the rounds of his archer’s callouses.

“Gimli, this cannot stand,” he grits out, as though either of them need to hear it said aloud.

“Aye, in that we are agreed.” He does not look at Legolas as he speaks. Instead his gaze is leveled at the parchment on the long table in front of him. The corners of it are ragged from where Legolas has torn it from its posting, and part of it is resting in a puddle of spilt ale. The paper is wet and warping in a slowly fattening oval of discord—and oh, what an apt metaphor that is for this situation!

There are unmarked rooms on the chart, and they are still in respectable locations. The suite Gimli and Legolas have been assigned is also wedged precisely between the other Elven and Dwarven delegations. If sharing guest quarters had been their preference, then this would have been excellent placement, showing apt respect for both parties.

Like Ghríc, Gimli suspects there was no foul intent. As Men, the Rohirrim do not realize how tenuous the current peace between Dwarves and Elves is. For all of their goodwill, they did not consider how bunking the Lords of Ithilien and Aglarond together like siblings in an overcrowded home would read as disrespect and scandal. Either the Rohirrim were spitting upon these successful new colonies for being less than ancient, or they were offering supreme insult to even insinuate that Elves and Dwarves were similar enough—or, indeed, comfortable enough—to tolerate the degradation of the intimate presence of the other.

How Legolas and Gimli themselves might think of it is, in this case, entirely irrelevant. In situations like this they are not Gimli and Legolas, they are Dwarf and Elf, representatives of their mighty, and thoroughly segregated, peoples.

“Well?” says Legolas expectantly. His eyes flick meaningfully to the delegation from the Greenwood, and then Erebor. For the first time this evening Gimli notices the way these parties are prickling with dissent over their own copies of this Mahal-cursed chart.

There is, at the end, something to be said for the discretion of having servants show you to your rooms. Gondor’s celebrations are not nearly as fun and informal, but such scandal never would have happened in Minas Tirith. The way his usual rooms are connected to Legolas’ by a surreptitious interior door has never been cause for distress, because they are always able to appear independent of one another to those who most badly needed to see a dignified separation of their races.

Now, the only way to prevent this matter from turning into a political catastrophe is to fly in the face of every and all subtlety. He hates to do it, but he needs to embarrass Èomer at his son’s birthday celebration.

“Well, I _was_ in a good mood,” Gimli grouses. “I suppose I should thank you for ruining it?”

To this he receives a precipitously censorious look, and to passersby he knows it appears as though they are in the midst of a vicious and hastily muted argument. He wonders why it should feel so believable that the most famous and steadfast of friends might quarrel this way, how _this_ is what their peers find reassuring.

From his proximity, Gimli can see the color returning to Legolas’ knuckles as this lackluster answer to his call to action percolates. There is a dark humor to the way Gimli drags his feet, and Legolas knows him well enough to understand the irony in the way it was intended.

“Be lucky I did not attempt to remedy the situation myself,” he retorts, expression a cool mask of Elven piousness even as the tension leaves the corners of his eyes. “I saw the wisdom of delegating the task to the dubiously titled Gimli _Silvertongue_ , rather than send your belongings into the horse troughs for being placed in my rooms.”

Were they in any other Kingdom, that might have been an insult. As things were, the only inglorious thing that might happen to his belongings in a Rohirric horse trough is the moisture.

Gimli conceals a grin of amusement within his beard, and finishes the ruse with a wordless shout of offense and disapproval. He is heartened that the tremor lacing the edges of Legolas’ voice seems to have left him, at least for the moment.

Legolas takes a neat step back and straightens his slender shoulders as Gimli pushes himself from the table and tucks his notebook into the liner of his vestments. “Aye, let Gimli Silvertongue rescue you, you helpless creature. I might have known it would come to this, as the witticisms of the Elves has so obviously skipped your generation.”

The expression on Legolas’ face is worth every jewel in Aglarond. It is not often that Gimli manages to genuinely surprise the Elf anymore, and right now he needs that pride to bolster himself for the show he must put on next.

He does, however, concede to flash his companion a quick smile to show there are actually no hard feelings as he snatches up the map. Instead of tolerant amusement or relief, however, he hears Legolas mutter that his belongings may end up in the horse trough anyway.

If they do, it still will have been worth it to see the Lord of Ithilien slack-jawed and speechless, focused on the insignificance of their banter instead of the well-meaning fiasco that is this parchment.

As with every Rohirrim accommodations chart, there is a name written on the bottom. The chart’s architect, ostensibly, but more importantly: the individual one must go to in order to request changes. In Minas Tirith they would be entitled the Master of the House, but at this moment Gimli cannot remember the term the Rohirrim use.

Èothain is easy enough to find, and whether he realizes it or not Gimli still recognizes the dusty face of the child and his sister who rode so hard to warn Edoras of the Wild Men that Saruman conscripted to terrorize the outer villages of the Kingdom. That young boy is a man grown now, as attentive and loyal as any of the good staff here in Meduseld.

Nevertheless, now is not the time for reminiscing. Or—since this conversation is being unabashedly eavesdropped by Elven and Dwarven delegations alike, at this point—pleasantries.

“Èothain, lad, there is a change that must be made,” Gimli decrees, brandishing the chart by way of greeting.

Èothain’s face had lit up in recognition, but upon seeing the chart it immediately falls. “Yes, my Lord Gimli? What seems to be the matter?”

“This.” Gimli has to consciously force himself to be ruder than he feels as he jabs his finger at the offending assignment. “This cannae happen, now or ever again.”

The confusion that clouds over the young Man’s face makes Gimli wonder just how obvious things have been, these last few decades. “Wait. But I thought—”

“—Whatever you thought, is not so.” Gimli makes a show of shaking his head sternly, and looking quite disgruntled by the implication. “Just because we were on the same quest once does not mean I want to be piled with the Lord of Ithilien like a sack of grain in the warehouse whenever we happen to attend the same events. Dwarves and Elves have their pride, lad, and we take wounds to it very seriously. Ye cannot ever be putting us in the same rooms.”

“Oh! Oh, no, my Lord, I certainly never meant to imply—”

“—Of course not.” Gimli looks the lad in the eye and holds him there. He is being more forceful than he would like, but he needs both Èothain and their audience to know that measures are being taken to preserve the tentative peace. “But _this—”_ he smacks the parchment with the back of his hand, causing a loud crack and the poor lad to flinch “—shall not happen again. Do we have an understanding?”

Èothain quails, as he is meant to. “N-no, Lord of Aglarond,” he says, dropping his head in a hasty bow. He holds his hand out for the offending chart. “I shall make any changes you and the Lord of Ithilien desire. It is ever my desire to ensure the guests of Rohan are taken care of to their satisfaction.”

“Excellent,” Gimli says as he passes it over. “And all of the charts will be altered to reflect this change, then?”

It is clear from the look on Èothain’s face that he finds the idea of changing every chart quite bothersome, indeed, but after a moment he seems to recognize the importance of it. “Of course, my Lord,” he says hastily. “There will be no diplomatic incidents sparked from my work tonight.”

“I should hope not,” Gimli says crisply. He hands are braced on his hips, and every once in a while he shakes his head again, further conveying his lack of approval of this entire debacle. He can feel the number of eyes watching this conversation finally sliding away now, and surmises that his performance has been good enough to satisfy them.

“And, erm.” The Man clears his throat awkwardly, and then indicates one of the unoccupied suites. “Would something like this be more to the liking of the Lord of Aglarond, or the Lord of Ithilien, or shall I find something a little further away?”

“That will do just fine, lad. The Lord of Ithilien has established he willnae move, so in an effort to keep the peace I shall be doing the relocating.”

“Of course. I shall send a team to prepare the rooms for you as soon as we finish.” Èothain snatches up the quill that has been lying in wait on the small desk he previously occupied, and dips it in the inkwell to make the adjustments. Then he pauses, and diffidently raises his head. “Just so I and mine know for the future, my Lord Gimli,” he says. “Is this a new animosity we should be leery of?”

At this point there is only one set of eyes upon this conversation, and Gimli does not mind what they see. “No, there is not,” he says as he allows his voice to gentle. “He is, as ever, my dearest and most favorite friend. Nothing more, and nothing less.”

By the time Gimli and the rest of the guests from away are fixing to leave Edoras, he and Legolas have received personal apologies from King Èomer himself, each given in a carefully separate and discrete manner.

“Èothain even asked me about the nature of your relationship, and I thought I knew the truth of it,” he confesses. He hair is streaked with grey now, and his face is lined with the marks of well-established middle-age, but he is still strong and hale beyond that. “I am deeply ashamed of the discomfort I have cost you both with my presumptiveness.”

“Take heart, my friend. I cannot speak for Legolas, but you have cost me no true discomfort,” Gimli says openly. It is not precisely accurate, all told, but for their purposes it is true enough. “I caution you to take note of the greater politics between two races before you deem to presume any levels of marital relations in the future, but I fully believe this is a story we shall all laugh at someday.”

If Èomer thinks that Gimli is speaking in anything beyond generalities, then it does not show. He inclines his head graciously, unconsciously mirroring the mannerisms of the horses his people love so much, and expresses a thankfulness for Gimli’s understanding. They separate on good terms, as they should, and once more the Lord of Aglarond manages to leave a Kingdom with better standing than he had when he arrived.

The room-assignment debacle required that he and Legolas spend the entirety of this event pointedly avoiding one another to reinforce the image of separateness, though the last time they saw one another was nearly six years ago. As he and Ghríc depart, Gimli does not permit himself to rue this botched opportunity. He focuses instead on what Aglarond has gained, and what Ghríc has learned of the Rohirrim and their customs. These are significant victories in their own right, and should be emphasized over the lingering sense of loss that mists on the edges of his thoughts. He has better things to do than mourn that his only conversation with Legolas was a mocked argument.

Oddly, it is Ghríc who brings the issue up.

“I had to defend you to Prince Elfwine, Uncle,” he says as they travel on their ponies. “He found your display obtuse and self-important.”

Gimli glances at his nephew. Ghríc’s demeanor is not chastising, but rather matter of fact—sharing information that he thinks Gimli might be interested to know. “Did you direct his attention to the perturbed delegations from Erebor and the Greenwood, then?” he asks.

“Erebor,” Ghríc corrects. “Dwarves and Men and even Hobbits, I know, but I am not familiar enough with Elven custom to name any displays with confidence.”

A wise assessment from a lad of barely eighty years—but then, Gína’s only child has always been so. It is what made him the clear choice as Gimli’s successor, among his nieces and nephews.

“Do you think I should have reacted differently?” Gimli is not looking for a particular answer with this question; he is merely curious as to the lad’s perception of things.

“Initially, yes,” his nephew admits. “I am aware of your warm rapport with the Elvenlord of Ithilien, if for no other reason than the booming laughter you shared at Lord Faramir and Lady Èowyn’s twentieth anniversary a few years back. Since you famously quested together for over a year, I saw no offense in sharing a space once again, particularly not when there were so many rooms in the suite.”

Ghríc is a serious lad, but his expression darkens now as he recalls the incident at this most recent feast. “There are times I forget that space above the earth is given a different premium, but Erebor reacting as though to a grievous slight is a reminder that I forget much more. Those Dwarves perceive race before friendship, and see the latter as existing in spite of the former, whereas I have developed a different opinion. It seems I must constantly remind myself that the philosophies of Aglarond is an experiment and not a norm.”

It is not appropriate to say so in this moment, particularly when his nephew is so thoroughly lambasting himself, but Gimli has never been so proud of his heir and his realm than this moment. Every part of him swells with esteem and affection and hope for the future.

“Dinnae be so hard on yourself, lad,” says Gimli instead, trying not to let a disproportionate amount of compassion feed into his tone. “You are still in training, and King Èomer and I have agreed there was no damage done over the long term, and made it so such an incident shall never happen again. That is all one can ask for, in the end.” Ghríc is only tentatively convinced, but that shall change with time. To distract from his nephew’s lingering guilt, Gimli says knowingly, “Now, I know you have managed to secure seeds for the Greenhouse.”

Ghríc’s young face breaks into a sheepish grin that his short red beard does nothing to hide. “Ah, well, there are a couple of things…” he says, trailing off with an air of bashfulness.

For his part, Gimli has no interest in botany, but considering the scale and scope of the Greenhouse Project it is fortunate that his heir is open to it. Actually, considering that Ghríc has returned from every trip Gimli has taken him on with new seeds to grow, it seems the lad has a genuine proclivity.

“Out with it, lad,” he says readily. “What new thing will Aglarond be trying now?”


	13. FO 35: Delicate Chiselwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life gets overwhelming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is where my wonderfully organized back-and-forth trading of perspective absolutely falls apart, because I was a Bad Writer and did things out of order. This is also a huge arc, so buckle up.
> 
> Lastly, you may want a hanky for this chapter. Just a little one.

Fourth Age, Year 35: Aglarond

Even the most delicate chisel can cause a cave-in.

It is a common enough saying amongst Dwarves, and it applies neatly as both fact and idiom. The implication is not that the chisel itself is doing the most damage, but rather that it is the unlucky catalyst for a series of devastating events. The chisel disrupts the pressure the other stones have been so precariously balanced upon.

Tap.

It begins with feuding weapons Guilds. The fissures are not along racial fault lines, which is refreshing, but rather along production techniques, and the latter—unfortunately— _does_ tend to fall along racial lines. The Guilds have been Gimli’s most persistent problem as of late. They have been mostly manageable. Involving several hours of mediation and arbitration, certainly, but still manageable. He has been making genuine progress with them, and Gimli is not afraid to give his time to progress.

Tap, tap.

Then he learns that Aglarond’s steadily expanding popularity as an immigration destination for Men, Dwarves, a not-insignificant portion of the Took family tree, and Elves (finally, after decades of negotiation first with Thorin, and then the various Lords) has created the uncomfortable position of Gimli having an extremely varied and capable population that he will be unable to feed through the winter. Food supplies are a constant struggle for any expanding settlement, and expected insofar as that goes. What rankles Gimli about this predicament is that he is only hearing about it now, a scant six weeks before they are snowed in for the season, and his Supplies Minister knew for _three Valar-accursed months,_ but had—in the most backward, asinine attempt to impress him that Gimli has _ever_ heard in his war-torn _life_ —attempted to solve the issue with clever mathematics and slapdash deals forged behind his back.

Tap, tap, tap.

This leads to the next boulder poised to smash calamitously upon all their heads. That same fool Minister brokered trade deals with the region known as Eriador, which is in the process of _being absorbed by Gondor_. His Minister savagely undercut the value of Aglarond’s exports in an attempt to make quick on the exchange for food, and Eriador had—of course—seized the offer in writing, authenticated with a nearly perfect replica of Gimli’s personal seal. Eriador’s transitioning leadership means it does not have the independence to be making decisions for itself at the moment, but it has already received as much as forty percent of Aglarond’s contribution, and there is no guarantee that Aglarond will receive any food in exchange.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

As if the Guilds and the tremendous disaster of the situation with Eriador are not enough to keep him busy, he receives news of his father passing into the Halls of Mahal. ‘Twas heart failure, according to the letter carried by the raven. It came upon him swiftly and potently, as predator pounces upon prey in the dark. Glóin son of Gróin was dead before he finished falling to the stone. No warning, no chance to say goodbye, and certainly no time for his only son to make the weeklong journey to see him set into Erebor’s catacombs.

Tap.

 _Clink_.

The proverbial cave collapses in on itself—and upon Gimli, holding his delicate little chisel.

It is tempting to accept the boulders that are pinning him down, to allow himself to be crushed by the incredible pressure and pronounce himself defeated. Perhaps he was never suited for leadership, for it feels that this chaos is of his own making, and nothing would have collapsed if he and his granite-headed aspirations had not gone too far.

Cave-ins are not the fault of the chisel; this knowledge is as common as the idiom. Typically, the reminder is some cause for comfort.

Comfort, however, will not lend him the vigor to dig himself out of the rubble alone. In fact, at this point Gimli feels he has very little strength left at all. In the metaphor of this cave-in, he is bruised and broken and very close to running out of air.

_Lord of Ithilien,_

_It is with no small amount of humility that the kingdom of Aglarond calls upon the friendship between our far-flung territories. Enclosed in this missive is an urgent, itemized solicitation for aid. Any supplies you may comfortably part with would be invaluable, and will be compensated their fair market cost, plus 2% interest._

_When there is enough time and parchment with which to herald the unprecedented events leading to this missive, it shall be copied to you. Suffice it to say, Aglarond does not leverage its relationships lightly, save for dire circumstance._

_Please attach your reply to this raven, yay or nay._

_With every possible regard,_

_Gimli son of Glóin  
Lord of Aglarond_

Similar notices are sent to Erebor, Rohan and Gondor. If the alternative is letting his people starve this winter, Gimli is not so proud that he cannot call upon his allies for aid. The King Under the Mountain will provide as much as he can, and Gimli also suspects Gondor is abreast of the situation and liable to be sympathetic. Likewise, Rohan has a vested interest in the success of Aglarond (and thus Helm’s Deep); he anticipates that they shall send something, as well.

Ithilien is, admittedly, the only outlier. Too far away to be considered a neighbor, and no clear economic interest—by all accounts, he should not have sent a raven their way.

Nevertheless, Legolas’ response arrives the following day.

_Gimli,_

_The enclosed supplies shall be there in a fortnight. I shall be there in four days._

_The usual rooms, please, and extra blankets this time. Lovely as it is, Aglarond is far too damp this time of year._

_-L_

A fragile croak of a laugh ekes out of Gimli, even as his knees sag. He drops heavily into his desk chair, grateful to his younger self for thinking to establish the habit of reading and answering his mail from the privacy of his personal quarters.

He had hoped against hope that Legolas might read between the stunted and formal lines of that original missive. It is too much to ask, really—he has two perfectly capable older sisters that he can and has requested support from in the past, not to mention a perfectly competent heir in Ghríc. Moreover: with the combined contributions he will receive from Aglarond’s standard alliances, the most pressing issue will have been addressed. The rest he will be able to untangle himself, given enough time.

It is not as though he can delegate the remaining tasks to anyone else, anyway; he is crushed by the weight of it all, and even now it is hard to breathe, but this is the one place in which the cave-in metaphor does not perfectly apply. In a true cave-in, a team will dig you out; it is not so when you are the Lord of your own realm. The fantasy of asking for Gína and Geri to take on portions of his logistical burdens can never be realized, because they are not the leaders his people look to for guidance; the trust is not there.

Besides, Gína and Geri are grieving their fallen father, and comforting the children who have lost their grandfather. It would be a cruelty to ask them for more than that, especially since he is only now sending Ghríc back to them, both to represent Aglarond and winter with their heartbroken family as Gimli cannot.

The fantasy of delegation is no more realistic when applied to a friend, of course—particularly when that friend is an Elf, a race that has only been in Aglarond for the last three years. There are no tasks Legolas may take on for him, even if he has the capacity to do so whilst conducting his own affairs from afar. He cannot unearth Gimli from this choking rubble, and Gimli knows it. He is certain that Legolas knows it, as well.

And yet, Legolas is traveling to Aglarond a scant six weeks before the wailing snows make the return trip too deadly to attempt. If the snows come early, he might be trapped here for the entire winter. There is no doubt that he realizes this.

And yet he comes—for between the lines of that original solicitation lay the stark admission of Gimli being buried alive, and needing the person he trusts most there to call out support and encouragement as he goes through the slow, screaming pain of digging himself back out.

In truth, Gimli should not have sent that raven. Surely Ithilien has its own tribulations this request is distracting from. Their realms possess no official ties beyond a camaraderie forged between their Lords by a decades-old quest, and an alliance with the same Kings of Men—this _is,_ objectively, too much to ask. In nearly forty years of acquaintance, one has never called upon the other in this way.

Legolas owes Gimli nothing. If he had not seen between the lines, or had seen and offered only a long-distance condolence, there would have been no acrimony. Gimli would never and has never begrudged someone for putting their people before all else, regardless of how the decision impacted him.

Perhaps it is that which makes Legolas’ arrival in Aglarond on the fourth day, wrapped in his old Lothlorien cloak and immaculately groomed despite his mount (a descendant of Percy) being windswept and exhausted, all the more precious.

Gimli initiates a greeting full of comfortable banter that only works because, as soon as their eyes meet, understanding immediately percolates the other’s demeanor. It is unlikely that Legolas has gleaned a sense of everything from a single shared glance, but he does not need to know the details to know how utterly Gimli has been devasted, or to work to keep the knowledge from becoming widespread.

He does not remember the details of the pleasantries they exchange as Legolas is received and his mare is taken to stable. He knows they make a good show of it, though, chatting amiably with those Legolas has come to know over the years while Gimli orders an Elven meal to be sent to the Lord of Ithilien’s usual rooms.

Only when they are alone and the sconces on the wall are lit do they abandon their façades of frivolity. Legolas’ head tips to the side and the smooth planes of his face fall into the shape of a disquieted frown as he takes proper stock of Gimli’s wearied features.

“When was the last time you rested?”

“I sleep every night, not that you would know to look at me.” The huff of indignation he tries to punctuate the response with is thwarted by dust ground from the twin stones of grief and responsibility catching in his throat.

Legolas does not parley with his feeble attempts at levity. Instead he drops his heavy pack upon the Elf-sized pallet with its extra blankets and spares an appreciative look for the hot, dry air blowing in from the grate on the side of the wall (one of the rare vents siphoning heat from the kitchens). When he speaks, it is only to say, “Indeed not, for sleep and rest are not always the same creature.”

It is a rebuke, albeit a gentle one. A reminder that he is only here because Gimli asked it of him, and he has yet to learn why.

Gimli opens his mouth to rectify the situation, to explain… and naught comes out but strangled breath. Surely the esteemed Lord of the Glittering Caves can articulate that before him is a mountain of grief so enormous that it already feels insurmountable, though he has not yet found time to address it? Surely he can be blithe as he makes reference to the debacles that are the weapons Guilds and Eriador?

Is it better to express the metaphor that is rapidly becoming his entire reality?

Mahal help him, where does he _begin?_

He does not realize that he has become unresponsive until there are cool hands grasping at his ears, softly guiding his forehead to press against something warm and solid. Only then is he able to blink back the darkness that has been cinching around the edges of his vision, and take his first full breath since the boulders came tumbling down.

Legolas has knelt before him and initiated something like a Dwarven warrior’s greeting, except instead of closing his eyes and allowing a brief moment of shared air and peace, his are open and watchful, dark with concern. The tips of their noses keep grazing, too, which is another sign he is doing it wrong if the warrior’s greeting is, indeed, his intention.

Gimli rather thinks not. For all that Legolas has observed the custom amongst Dwarves, he has never initiated it himself. Ever has he claimed the process of folding himself down to the proper height to be ‘too cumbersome’.

“I do not ask for the full story, Gimli _._ I do not need it to see you were right to ask for help,” he murmurs now, and he does not continue until Gimli fully meets his gaze. He nudges forward, nuzzling, using the movement to keep Gimli from drifting away. _“Mellon-nîn,_ you are not alone now _._ Tell me what you need from me.”

Gimli lets out a long, wavering breath as his eyes slip shut and he covers those slender fingers with his own. He leans into the contact, for right now he cannot pretend there are not moments where closeness is all he has ever wanted from this life.

 _Mellon-nîn,_ my friend. He aches to recall the inflection behind those words. How is it that Legolas can wield such generic terms of platonic endearment so tenderly?

_Tell me what you need from me._

The request is not loaded with implication; there is no trick or riddle. It is a sincere question from someone who cares about him enough to risk being snowed into too-damp caves for months on end, without first needing to hear why. And it is that simple, blessed purity which gives Gimli pause.

With the exception of Dwalin, Glóin was all that remained of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield—one of the final members of an entire generation of Dwarves. While Gimli’s personal love and esteem for his father is untarnished and unmatched, it is nevertheless true that Glóin and his generation only ever liaised with the other races when the choice was between that and their own certain demise. The views are not unreasonable, considering the wars and betrayals of the Third Age, but as the Fourth Age finds its footing it is becoming increasingly obvious that it will be characterized by cooperation and unity, and that those who resist will be left behind. For proof, one need look no further than the responses denoting the generous aid Aglarond will receive, just in time to survive the winter.

But therein lies the answer: Aglarond. His people, looking to him for leadership and the skill to address situations as they come. To dig himself out from under the avalanche of stone and give them the focus and loyalty they deserve. To drag himself to his feet and not let on how much it pains him to do so for their sake, so the Fourth Age will not leave them behind. So they can have better than his father’s generation.

If he does not have the time to properly grieve the beloved sire who taught him so much of the canniness and eloquence he now uses every day, he _certainly_ does not have the time for anything else.

Gimli stills, keeping himself from leaning closer as he his hands fall back empty to his sides, tucking the fragile notion away with a single motion.

He fully expects Legolas to sense this redrawing of composure and move. He does not. _“Mellon?”_ he asks instead, voice soft with knowing. Without ever being told, Legolas realized what Gimli has snagged upon, and he now waits to hear the conclusion of it. Whatever the determination is, Gimli knows there will be no protest, no conflict. No rancor.

There is no room in his companion’s life for extraneous projects, either, really. For all that Legolas has time immemorial, these days he has no more than Gimli. The first few decades of a new colony will do that to you.

Gimli opens his eyes to find wordless agreement gazing back at him in the form of a poignant half-smile and slightly warmer fingers lingering along the shell of his ears. There is no regret between them, for who can regret taking the time to build his own realm? Rather, there is an implicit understanding of what each would say, if he could.

The knock on the door of the Lord of Ithilien’s rooms is brisk and polite and only furthers their mutual conviction that the right time—if there ever is one—is not now. Legolas is on his feet again in an instant to accept the meal as it is offered. He speaks with friendliness, and makes no effort to obscure the fact Gimli is here. Neither, however, does he draw any attention to it, so much so that the staffer does not notice the Lord of Aglarond at all.

“Never have I known you to be bereft of words,” Legolas remarks as he sweeps the covered tray over to the desk that has been made specifically for him, right down to the carvings of his favorite big maple leaves along the edges and legs.

“Aye, but rare is the day where there isn’t enough candle- and firelight to bear witness to the saying of them all,” he replies. He can still feel the gentle touch on his ears, and he distracts himself from it by pulling on one of the braids in his beard in a very un-Lordly fashion. “Perhaps rest is what I need, after it all.”

“A wise conclusion, and a familiar one. I wonder where I recall hearing it?” Legolas’ demeanor is a perfect display of idle thoughtfulness as he uncovers the tray. The act is broken with a sound of delight as he recognizes the dishes therein. “You truly _have_ been making improvements to the Glittering Caves!”

Gimli dismisses the insinuation that the food is the only palatable improvement to Aglarond with a wordless grumble. “There’s a lass on pilgrimage, or something akin to it. Very young, to my mind—I believe she said two-hundred, or thereabouts?” he says, and he notices how high Legolas’ eyebrows go as he glances between the food and Gimli. “At any rate, in a recent bout of homesickness she decided she didnae have qualms with teaching the culinary secrets of your people, so you have her to thank.”

It is difficult to say whether Legolas’ surprise is due to the lass’ age or her gumption in sharing the tricks of Elven culinary trade. “She cannot be from Eren Lasgalen,” he says, confirming the reason as the former. “There have been no children in the Greenwood since…” He trails off as he looks at the food again as if searching it for answers.

“Since you?” suggests Gimli. It is more conjecture than proper reminder. He has never learned Legolas’ age—it has never had any bearing on their association—but based upon Legolas’ reaction to his truly _ancient_ kin along their quest, Gimli has a general sense of it.

He also says it to tease, of course, because bantering with Legolas is easy and he thinks the distraction from his other concerns might be doing him some good.

The remark earns him a sharp look of reproof. “I was _not_ so rambunctious a youth that the entirety of my father’s kingdom stopped having children en mass,” he says, though he does wait for Gimli to have a giggle about it.

“Oh, aye. It’s all very good to be saying so, now that you’re a Lord well into his maturity.”

Legolas narrows his eyes and says tartly, “This is not what I intended when I mentioned _rest.”_

Yet there is a grin tugging at the corner of his lips, Gimli notes. Legolas can feign aggravation only so well.

“Is this not restful, to your mind?” he chortles. “Would that I could properly understand Elves someday!”

At this point in their history Legolas is not unused to laughing at his own expense, just as a Dwarf might, and he does so now. However, that is also when the lightness of the conversation fades back into the same concern from which it began. He regards Gimli with care as he rotates the chair beside his meal and lowers himself onto it. They are more properly at eye-level now, which is likely the reason for it.

“Is it solitude you fear, then?” he asks softly.

Gimli does not begrudge him the question, even if there is no proper and respectable answer to be found. While he refuses to demur, he nonetheless averts his gaze as he says, “At the risk of being misconstrued, I am afraid there is little restfulness to be found in solitude.”

There is a pause, ostensibly as Legolas performs the necessary mental acrobatics for hearing a veiled request not to be sent away without concluding that Gimli has just defied their most recent agreement.

“Ah,” he says at length, and there is no misunderstanding in his voice. Rather, his tone is light, and there is an air about him that one might almost call _sly,_ if an individual of Legolas’ disposition were ever capable of such a thing. “Well, as it stands, I am not half as weary from my journey as my host seems to expect, and there is food to eat and letters to write, besides. Should a dear companion happen to nap as he patiently waits for me to finish these things, I would not hold it against him.”

It is a flimsy excuse, made primarily so that they can both pretend there is nothing more to this, and it is all Gimli needs to hear.

“That’s a fine coincidence, because I find I have not slept properly in at least a week, and I believe a nap might do me good.”

Gimli cannot determine it is for deniability or encouragement, but Legolas deliberately rotates his chair back to his desk and says no more. Instead, he crunches on some vegetable-thing the kitchen prepared for him (courtesy of the Tooks of Aglarond, and the thriving Greenhouse Project), opens the usual drawer to find fresh paper and pens with full inkwells, and sets to work.

While he is doing that, Gimli shucks his boots and the sharper parts of his garb. These rooms are kept warm, per Legolas’ preference, which means all Gimli needs to be comfortable is to flop onto the too-long pallet. He is asleep in under a minute, lulled by the quiet domesticity of his most favorite companion going about his business, and the general air of serenity that emanates from him.

Gimli sleeps much harder than he intends, and has no proper memory of what happens after that. The sensation of being nudged towards the wall, or of snoring and smearing his cheek against several blankets wrapped over a slender shoulder, are all indistinct and unverified, likely the result of longing brought on by a conversation that very nearly happened. All he knows is that, when he awakes proper, it is midmorning, and he is alone in the Lord of Ithilien’s rooms. He is still in yesterday’s clothing, laying atop far too many blankets instead of under them, with his back against the cool stone wall, and the space beside him is remarkably smooth and undisturbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am breaking canon a little for this event. Canonically, Gloin dies in the 15th year of the Fourth Age. I bumped it out twenty years because pacing is important.


	14. FO 35: The People of Aglarond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some conversations you will never be prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may or may not be influenced by [this tumblr post](https://rhinocio.tumblr.com/post/617759030916562944/batmanisagatewaydrug-batmanisagatewaydrug). Oops, and also I am sorry.

Fourth Age, Year 35: Aglarond

If Aglarond is known for anything beyond its mineral exports, it is for being a realm of centralized community nexuses. The most breathtaking spaces in the realm are the ones that hold and entertain the most people: the bazaar, the cafeteria Hub, the great hall used for celebrations, and the Room of Starlight (Aglarond’s most popular tourist attraction). The kitchens, Hub, and baths are maintained by a collective rotation that no one, not even Gimli himself, is exempt from. While there are private residences, they are small in size and often only for sleep, with perhaps one other space for use as a workshop or study. Even as a guest of some nobility, Legolas only has two small rooms. By contrast, his typical suite in Minas Tirith contains four spacious rooms and a balcony.

It is some comfort to know that Gimli, as the Lord of Aglarond, only has three rooms, and his do not even have a heat vent. He claims it is because he did not want one, and in fact his rooms are arranged to display with loving care the place where twin veins of crystal and sapphire intersect, but nonetheless. Every part Aglarond is designed to force its citizenry out of their homes to interact with one another.

It is finally starting to work as Gimli intended. Legolas has only visited a handful of times over the years, and never as long as he would prefer, but it is always enough to glean the emotional pulse of the population. Oh, everyone who comes to Aglarond knows and consents to the experiment, as it were, but over the years the prevailing atmosphere as one explored has been varying stages of wariness and self-awareness. Now, Legolas scarcely notices it at all. Now, after nearly forty years, the prevailing atmosphere truly is one of _community._

“May I ask you a question? Master, uh…”

Legolas glances over to see one of the infamous Tooks of Aglarond. Her clothing is fascinating fusion of Hobbit finery and Dwarven practicality, intricately carved wooden buttons and delicate floral embroidery upon cloth woven for strength over aught else, and not a few sturdy leather and mineral embellishments. Her curly Hobbit hair is twisted into simple Dwarven work-braids that keep it out of her eyes, and her furry toes are adorned with silver rings.

She radiates the same youthful energy that Pippin possessed during the early days of their Fellowship, and it is that more than anything that bids Legolas to do a quick mental calculation and realize she was probably born here.

A Hobbit not of the Shire. What might Frodo and Bilbo have said about that?

Nevertheless, the young Hobbit’s uncertain question cannot go unanswered. “I believe Hobbits prefer surnames, so you may use Greenleaf—or Thranduillion, if you prefer lineage as the Dwarves do,” Legolas says pleasantly.

“Master Greenleaf, then,” she decides. “May I ask you a question—err. A _different_ question?”

He is in the Hub and working on some of the paperwork he did not finish the night before, but his worry for Gimli’s state of mind is such that the going has been slow. He does not begrudge the opportunity to set his quill aside and swivels about on his bench, crossing his legs at the knee as he surveys the young Hobbit.

“Certainly, Miss…?”

“Oh, yes, that’s right! Ruby Took,” she says—and, in a display that Legolas can only classify as _Dwarven,_ she offers a sprightly little bow. “At your service.”

“Miss Took,” Legolas says with a slow spreading smile and an incline of his head. “A pleasure to meet you. What was it you were looking to know?”

 _“Okay,_ so there’s been this rumor going around about Elves, right? And I don’t mean to offend, of course I don’t. I just want to dig down to the bedrock of it, and I keep getting mixed messages.”

Legolas blinks, stunned. Little Ruby Took speaks Westron faster than the rivers of Ithilien can fly across the landscape, and with far more regional slang and accent than he is accustomed to. He is as practiced at navigating a discussion’s regional influences as any head of state may be, but this is a bit much, even for him.

“Cousin Pippen is absolutely _convinced_ —he tells everyone, and he says he would know better because he met ancient Elves—and all my Elvish friends here laugh before telling me he’s right. But why would you laugh before telling someone that? I ask you.” There is a pause as Ruby Took waits, fidgeting from what one can only assume is an overabundance of youthful energy. “Well? Master Greenleaf?” she says at length. “Care to comment? You said you would.”

It has been long years since Legolas has been so overwhelmed in conversation. “My apologies, Miss Took, but I do not believe you actually mentioned what the topic was,” he points out as gently as he can.

“Did I not?” The little Hobbit pauses, her lips moving soundlessly as she reiterates her half of the conversation to herself. Then she realizes, “I suppose I didn’t. Well, why didn’t you say so sooner! I was nearly cross with you, Master Greenleaf.”

Legolas is torn between fondness for the obvious family resemblance between Pippen and his cousin, and casting about for Ruby’s parents so he may signal them to rescue him from her. “Well, it is certainly my hope that our rapport may remain amicable, my young friend,” he says.

“That’s it! ‘Young friend’—I knew it.” Without needing to be invited, she plops down beside him, her short legs swinging as she sits astride the bench. She gestures to him with all the confidence of one who is safe in the sanctity of her own assumptions. “I knew you were one of the old Elves—and that’s not just because I know everyone, and I’ve never seen you around before.”

“Oh?” he says as he shifts towards her. “What gave me away?”

Ruby looks right at him, and says with perfect confidence, “Because you’re the tallest Elf I’ve ever met, and Pippen and my friends all say that Elves get taller and glowier as they get older, instead of grey and wrinkled.”

Perhaps Ruby Took is a prophet, because right now, at this very moment, Legolas is as antique and tired as Arda itself. Never in his life has he felt so _old_ as he does now.

“Funny you should mention that, Ruby,” comes a warm, low rumble that Legolas has never been happier to hear. Gimli approaches with an amused gleam in his eye as he looks between the Elf and the little Hobbit, who truly seems to be of some renown. “I have often wondered if that may be true, myself.”

Abruptly, Legolas is only half as happy that the Lord of Aglarond has somehow managed to find him in the absolute din of the Hub, where a solid half of the population must be gathered to break their fast. The impressiveness of this feat is entirely eclipsed by the harassment said Lord is currently inflicting upon his guest.

He looks far better rested than he did the day before, and that is encouraging. However, in this moment, that is decidedly _not_ the point.

Ruby lets out a gasp, bolting upright with the force of her realization. “That’s right. Gimli, you’ve met the same ancient Elves as Cousin Pippen!”

“Indeed I have, lass,” Gimli says with a nod. His tone is playful, though it really should be some manner of chastising. “What has you on the subject, anyway?”

“Well, Cousin Pippen—”

“—Say no more, I am familiar with your cousin and his theories.”

Ruby Took nods emphatically, entirely accepting of the interruption. Is that it? Is taming this curly-haired force of nature truly so simple? “He can spin yarn with the best of the gossips. You know this.” At this point she gestures to Legolas. “That’s why I had to ask a really old Elf to be honest with me.”

There is an expectant silence, and it takes Legolas much longer than it should to realize they are both waiting for his input on the most bizarre theory about his people that has ever been dreamt up.

That is when he registers the sounds of clear, high-toned giggling—and yes, there. A group of four young Elves, hardly much older than their majorities, wearing the stylings of Rivendell and Lothlorien in turn. They are clustered together at a table of their own, with several equally young-looking Dwarves and Hobbits and Men: Ruby Took’s group of friends, it would seem.

Gimli referred to one of them the night before, but Legolas is still astonished that Elves so young exist on Arda at all.

Something pangs within him to see this innocent prank uniting the Free Peoples, this flagrant display of carefree youth, regardless of the number it wears. It is a powerfully poignant sight that causes emotion to surge within him, his throat to tighten.

This is what they fought for—what they continue to strive for. Moments like these.

Ah, but Ruby Took is still awaiting an answer she may bring back to her multicultural gaggle of friends, and at this point Legolas has no illusions that she will stay until she has one.

“You are asking me to confirm that impressive height and an ambient glow are signs of Elvish maturity,” he clarifies in a flat voice.

“You cannae deny that the Lady Galadriel—one of your most ancient kin—was both,” Gimli says diplomatically.

“She was?” asks Ruby, looking upon the Lord of Aglarond with all the eager fondness of a young niece awaiting tell of faraway lands from her famously well-traveled uncle.

“Oh, aye, she was the most radiant creature to ever grace Arda,” says Gimli without any notion of exaggeration. The Lockbearer goes vaguely misty-eyed as he reflects upon his Lady. “Twice as tall as you or I—taller even than Legolas, here. And certainly exuding an ambient glow, as though a small sun fell so in love with her that it dedicated its existence to following her always.”

“She sounds amazing,” Ruby swoons, utterly mystified.

“Gimli, she had a ring of power!” cries Legolas. “Of course she was ethereal!”

“Gandalf also carried an Elven ring of power,” Gimli argues. There is no question that he is enjoying this conversation—and, by proxy, Legolas’ exasperation—immensely. “We never saw him glowing.”

“So it _must_ be an Elven trait,” Ruby concludes with a crisp nod of her curly head. “There’s no other explanation.”

Legolas is surrounded by children. Numerically, this is nearly always the case—but it is also now true in spirit. He is a lone adult in a forest of children.

“There is another explanation,” he tells the young Hobbit, in no uncertain terms. “The Lady Galadriel is an immensely powerful being who happens to be taller than average. If she glows, it is because she wills it, not because of her age.”

Ruby is not satisfied by the nuance of this explanation, and stares back defiantly, her lower lip jutted out in inadvertent pout. “Then how can you see when an Elf is old?” she demands.

Legolas shakes his head. “It is not to be seen. Once we reach our maturity, we experience no more physical changes. You may only know through listening to memory and anecdote.”

“How old are you?”

Legolas makes a face, and Gimli utters a strangled wheeze of suppressed laugher. He shakes his head when Ruby turns to flash him a curious look, the occasional silver strand glinting amongst the sea of red like hidden mithril. “I am one-hundred-and-seventy-seven, lass. You know that.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“You looked to me as though you wanted to know.”

“That’s not what—” Ruby, seeming to understand that there is no way to further that line of conversation, lets out a breath and shakes her head. Then she turns back to Legolas. “You don’t like this question. Why is that, Master Greenleaf? My friends don’t care if I ask.”

He is a little surprised at the astuteness of the observation, though knowing she has noticed does bring him some measure of ease. At least he is not being completely tuned out.

She is so, so young, Legolas thinks as he gazes upon the Hobbit. She wants to know as much as she can, but she has not yet learned how to properly ask after it. “I imagine your friends are quite young, for our kind. Under three-hundred?” Then, at her surprised and impressed nod, he says, “After a point—the number is different for everyone—they, too, will likely find that quality of their years is far more important than the accumulation of them.”

Ruby gazes at him for a moment, thoughtful. Then she says, “You just don’t feel like doing the math, do you?”

Gimli roars in laughter, unable to contain himself, and Legolas cannot help but laugh as well. Oh, to look upon the world through the eyes of a Hobbit raised among Dwarves!

Ruby does not hesitate to laugh along with them, but when their mirth subsides, she presses again. “I’m right, though, aren’t I?”

“There is too much work involved with switching Ages,” he agrees readily. “I know when I have been bested, my young friend, and there is little reward in calculation where there is no glowing and extra height at the end of it.”

“That does seem a shame,” Ruby admits, gazing upon him with some measure of misapplied pity. “Your hair doesn’t even change color?”

Legolas shakes his head, though at this point he is softened enough to the youth that he needs to hold back another chuckle. “I am afraid not. For better or worse, I am as I will always be.”

“That sounds boring.”

“Perhaps. But it is reliable.”

“I suppose.” She says it, but Legolas can see she only does it as a placating measure. Standing next to her, Gimli is radiating amusement. “Well, nothing for it,” Ruby Took says as she springs to her feet and makes a small adjustment to her vest, made of sturdy Dwarven materials but cut and sewn in the curved, gentle aesthetics of Hobbits. “I had good reason to be suspicious of Cousin Pippin and my laughing friends. I shall have to inflict upon them the wisdom of Master Greenleaf.”

“Dinnae mention Legolas’ full name to your cousin,” Gimli suggests with a conspiratorial grin. “Wait to see how long it will take him to realize he knows who Master Greenleaf is.”

This inspires a tinkling laugh of childish delight. “I like the way you think,” she informs Gimli with an approving nod. With that, she makes as if to take her leave. A thought stops her, and she looks to Legolas peculiarly. “That’s right, you’re new! Have you been to the Greenhouse yet?” she asks with interest. “It’s the finest sight in Aglarond, after the Room of Starlight. My family tends to it.”

“Aye, and they do a far finer job than any others I could hope to recruit,” says Gimli with warm esteem. He pats the young Hobbit on the shoulder, and she straightens in pride.

“Dwarves don’t have the green thumbs of Hobbits, though they do try,” Ruby says in such a way that Legolas thinks she has probably said this hundreds of times before, and is like to say it hundreds of times hence.

“Like as not, the Project might have failed, if not for your kin,” Gimli agrees. “I was thinking of showing Master Greenleaf the Greenhouse today, in fact. Will we be interrupting anything?”

As with every conversation amongst Hobbits, there are several false starts before Ruby Took properly takes her leave—and even at that, she only goes at the behest of her friends, who keep making insistent gestures for her to convene with them from several tables away. It is not that any of them seem intimidated by Gimli or Legolas, but more that they are loathe to give up such a large table and its convenient nearness to the kitchen’s serving window. The other Hobbits, in particular, are taking particular advantage of this proximity.

It has not escaped Legolas’ notice that everything coming from the kitchens is made primarily with cheap, filling fare—grains and beans and potatoes, and only occasional garnishes of meat and vegetables. His own meal from last night, it seems, was an extravagance.

Even after Ruby Took rejoins her friends, however, they are still not alone. Aglarond’s citizenry is all around them, several of whom exchange lively hellos with Gimli as they mill about, as well as slightly more reserved greetings for Legolas. This is hardly the place to bring up Gimli’s torturously formal letter and its underlying sense of panic and despair, or the alarming fragility and exhaustion he displayed as soon as they were alone the night before.

He is not well, Legolas notes as Gimli briefly detours to the kitchens himself. He obscures for his people with easy quips and laughter, but the stiffness in his musculature—the creases in his forehead, his too-pale pallor, the heaviness of his gaze—is painfully obvious to one who may compare this visage to a perfect memory of him from happier times. Though he is better rested today, his exhaustion is very clearly only an unfortunate side-effect, and not the problem itself.

Legolas recalls asserting as much the night before, but with every hour of this new day it is becoming increasingly obvious that Gimli was right to ask for help.

Whatever the reason, he thinks as the Lord of Aglarond returns with a modest breakfast of porridge and sausage. Their eyes meet, and for just an instant Gimli’s expression is as devastated and broken as Mordor. Whatever the _reasons_ , Legolas mentally amends, they are significant, and this is neither the time nor the place to discuss them.

“You did not mention in your letters that Aglarond has its own princess,” Legolas says instead, smiling teasingly.

Gimli lets out a groan that is as fond as it is defeated. “Twenty-one years ago, Ruby Took was the first babe born to Aglarond, and to great fanfare. As you can see—” he gestures to Ruby and her friends, as well as the startling number of people who stop by to chat “—she has been adopted by the entire settlement, and the unrestrained love of so many surrogate aunts and uncles has instilled within her the power and confidence of a Vala.”

“Twenty-one! She is much younger than I thought.”

“Oh, aye,” says Gimli with a sigh of resignation—and, just underneath that, a swelling pride that can only derive from being one of those many surrogate uncles. “Not yet at her majority, and already young Ruby speaks Khuzdul as well as Durin himself, despite every dwarrow in Aglarond swearing upon their family tree that she has been given no lessons. She is also conversational in Sindarin and Rohirric,” Gimli adds with a telling nod towards the table of happily chattering adolescents. “And, of course, she delights in meeting visitors and hearing tell of lands and cultures outside the Glittering Caves—even if, in her enthusiasm, it results in her raking them over the coals.” At this, he offers Legolas a grimace of apology. “I should have warned you earlier that Aglarond was in possession of the most Tookinest Took that ever Took’d. If it brings you any comfort, she is unique in that respect.”

“Thank Mahal. We couldnae survive if there were _two_ Ruby Tooks,” mutters a dwarf as they pass. Considering the remark was made in Westron, Legolas can only assume they intended for it to be overheard.

Indeed, Gimli laughs around a spoonful of porridge. “Mírn speaks true,” he says with a frank grin. “But the lass grows on you. I hardly notice the Took-ing anymore, myself.”

“There is an inexorable charm about her, though it be overwhelming to start,” Legolas admits with a helpless gesture. “She bears an uncanny resemblance to a young Pippin.”

Gimli nods as he chews his breakfast, and Legolas is heartened to see a gleam of amusement that is not exaggerated for the sake of putting on a good show. “Aye,” he says after he swallows. “Except she overwhelms him, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't a story about OCs but as soon as Ruby Took materialized she hijacked the whole diddly darn chapter; poor Legolas is not the only one who was just barely managing to hang on for the ride. The precociousness of a Hobbit raised with the inexorable confidence of a Dwarf is a force to be reckoned with, as it turns out.
> 
> Never fear! I do manage to swat her away for the rest of this arc. This does not become The Ruby Show, much as she might enjoy that.


	15. FO 35: A Day in the Life, Such as it is Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the pretext of being giving the Grand Tour, Legolas has a chance to observe and stitch the story together.

Fourth Age, Year 35: Aglarond

It is either the gift of a beard to hide behind or general cultural brazenness, because Legolas has never seen nervousness in a dwarf.

Well, until today.

It is not a social anxiety, he thinks as the dwarf approaches and Gimli’s features immediately creases into a scowl of fury. It is not even that this new dwarf is sheepish about stopping them on their way out of the Hub, though he is certainly doing that. Nay, it is the fidgeting of genuine uncertainty and discomfort: the universal aura of one who knows they have made a grave error.

No wonder Gimli looks about ready to strangle him.

“Lord Gimli,” the dwarf begins in a poor semblance of joviality. He is clutching a sheaf of paper that probably had not started as rumpled as it now is. “I have calculated—”

“—Is it within the basic necessity of your job description?”

The dwarf falters hard, mouth moving soundlessly within his beard for a few agonizing seconds. “Well, no,” he admits. “But—”

“—And have you satisfied the basic functions of your position prior to embarking on these hare-brained calculations?”

A sweaty grimace, followed untactfully by a “Not yet, though I—”

“—Then do. _Not. Bother.”_ Gimli’s voice is an avalanche careening down a mountainside. “Or has it once again slipped the Supplies Minister’s mind that, in his negligence, we now have little more than a month to arrange enough resources to feed thousands? What, pray tell, could be _more important?”_

And the fool before them, he did not take the hint to rephrase. Instead, this rabbit of a Dwarf hopped himself right into the waiting maw of the wolf before him. “I will get to sorting that, I just—”

“—No.” Gimli’s voice is no longer an avalanche, but rather the chilling stillness that followed the most calamitous destruction. Legolas has always known Gimli’s most potent wrath to be fire and thunder; never has he heard his vibrant companion sound so _cold_.

It worries him.

Gimli takes a step closer to his wayward Minister. The better to intimidate him by, ostensibly. As luck would have it, he is also taller by a few inches—and Valar help the incompetent before him, because Gimli knows how to make himself a hundred feet tall when he has a mind to it.

“You,” he growls. “Will do the bare minimum. Just enough to keep things functioning as smoothly as they can, so your replacement willnae have a significant backlog when I install them to clean up the mess _you_ made. You will know I have found them when they arrive to divest you of your office.” He seizes and holds onto the severely cowed Dwarf’s gaze until there is a little hiccup of distress, and only then does he permit the other to look away. “Leave my sight, before I regret that I am unarmed.”

That, at least, the soon to be replaced Minister could do properly. Gimli watches him scurry off with such an air of thrashing fury that the souls who dare to pass him by take pains to give a wide berth.

Legolas knows better than to say anything at this time, but he needs no verbal confirmation that this Minister’s ineptitude is the primary reason behind the food shortage Gimli’s letter spoke of. One can only assume there had been some other redeeming quality which led him to be appointed, but from this vantage point it is difficult to argue with Gimli’s rage.

Gimli is still seething when he straightens his shoulders and motions for Legolas to follow him down one of the many broad tunnels leading from the Hub, but his forceful exhalations belie his attempts to quell it. Legolas does not rush the process along, instead looking over Gimli’s head and beyond, to their next brightly lit destination. It is the great, multi-leveled bazaar—perhaps Gimli has an errand to run here? Legolas was under the impression they were going to the subterranean greenhouse.

Actually, this may be the most efficient way to get there for all Legolas knows. He visits Aglarond far too infrequently to have a reliable mental map of its tunnel networks, even before factoring in the constant construction. He can take himself from his rooms to the artificial hot spring and the Hub, and from the Hub to the stables to visit Faen, and now he supposes he can travel between the bazaar and the Hub as well—but that is the extent of his knowledge at the moment. If he winters here, he suspects there will be a vast improvement to that, but right now it is too soon to tell if that might be necessary.

Aside from the Hub, the bazaar is the largest and most lavish space in the realm. Delicate spiral stairs seem to grow from naturally occurring columns, giving those who ascend them to access the two upper levels of the bazaar an inadvertent tour as they climb. The walls are studded with naturally occurring crystal that twinkle and throw spectrums of color upon walls and stalls and Free Peoples alike when struck with the natural light that filter in through slatted skylights. Separate districts are denoted by sweeping archways decorated with fanciful mosaics of gemstones intermingling with the carvings into the stone. Even the stone pathway beneath his feet is smooth and embedded with the precious minerals Aglarond is known for.

Truly, one does not call these the Glittering Cave for nothing.

The vendors of the bazaar itself are craftsmen, mostly. jewelers and cobblers and tailors and other merchants of dry goods are in no short supply here. The only thing Aglarond’s bazaar does not entertain is an extraneous food market (because there are no private kitchens), but even then, there are merchants who hawk sweets that will remind one of Rohan, Rivendell, or the Shire.

It is louder and fuller than last time, Legolas notes with a small smile of approval. Issues with winter provisions notwithstanding, it is still heartening to see all of Gimli’s plans for Aglarond coming to fruition.

That is about the time he realizes that, in his admiration, he has lost Gimli in the crowd entirely. Even being able to see above the heads of most of the markets occupants proves to be no boon, though Gimli’s unusual hair should have been easy to pick out.

On any other day, he might not have bothered to search. He is not lost, and he knows that Gimli will circle back once he has finished whatever errand he has left to address; for any other day, that would have been enough. Today, however, Legolas does not trust his companion to do well on his own for long periods. He is too unstable. Legolas has seen far too much uncharacteristic behavior these last twenty-four hours to think otherwise.

Despite the steady rabble of conversation all around him, Legolas tilts his head and listens closely for one timbre in particular. Gimli will likely still be sharp with leftover ire, his Westron abrupt and percussive. If he transitions to Khuzdul, it will be harder to pick him out—Legolas knows the language to hear it, but is familiar with none of the particulars, and as such finds determining unnecessary inflection a challenge. He knows Gimli’s voice nearly as well as his own, though, and it is that upon which he relies.

Ah, there he is. How did he manage to get up to the second level so quickly?

He does not rush because it does not befit someone of his rank and file, choosing instead to pause to look out at the glittering sight before him as he takes the gently spiraling steps. One rotation around the massive pillar, and he is on the second level. While it looks like nothing more than a wide balcony from the first level, the second level is a bazaar all its own, reaching deep into the bedrock of the mountain to safely house the fires and forges of weapons smiths and metalworkers. The storefronts that a visitor such as Legolas might peruse were often only a small fraction of their income—more of a formality, than anything.

Gimli is standing betwixt two very different weapons stalls. One is styled in the ways of Men, everything tall and lightweight to maximize on raw materials. The other is Dwarven, and all of its wares are brutal and heavy, each piece designed to be its wearer’s primary weapon.

Actually, standing betwixt the stalls is not quite accurate. He is bodily putting himself _between_ a frustrated Dwarf and an angry Man.

“I dinnae have time to mediate right now,” Gimli is saying, and Legolas is surprised to find none of his earlier foul mood in his voice or demeanor. He is calm and steady, dividing this attention very precisely between the two parties. “But I am willing to have another arbitration as early as tomorrow, so long as you refrain from trying to kill each other.”

At this the Man groans and the Dwarf scoffs.

“We _are_ adults,” the Man says, somewhat pointedly.

“I should hope so,” Gimli says, and while his tone is fairly well moderated his thick red eyebrows raise at the two parties in at least partial jest. “I thought myself to be speaking with Guild Masters and not a couple of toddlers. It is a delight to hear I havenae been mistaken.”

This gets a reluctant chuckle from both parties.

“What time tomorrow?” asks the Dwarf, and while she does sound tired the irritation is slowly leaching from her.

“I was thinking we could use a fine pep talk as we break our fast,” Gimli replies airily. “Really set the tone for the rest of the week, we three capable adults of some reputation.”

Both parties tolerate this needling remarkably well, and Legolas suspects Gimli has been using this level of companionable harassment as an equalizer for a while. If they can be united in mild annoyance against him, they have to acknowledge each other differently.

It would not work with any two feuding souls, certainly, but Legolas can see the merit amongst those who are flexible enough to live in an experimental colony.

“I don’t suppose we could make it lunch?” asks the Dwarf experimentally.

“And interrupt the workday? I would never dream of it, Khîm—but, out of respect for your delicacy, I will concede to seven instead of six. Will that suffice?”

Khîm lets out the short huff of one who knows better than to push her luck even further. “I suppose it shall have to, though if you dare to call me delicate again I willnae be responsible for the black eye you receive, _my Lord,”_ she retorts.

Gimli and the Man laugh heartily at this, and then Gimli finally seems to notice Legolas. “I thought to leave you to your gawking,” he says with a smarmy grin.

He is trying way too hard.

“It seems I have had my fill,” Legolas replies nonetheless. “I confess, _mellon_ , one shining rock looks much like the rest from this vantage.”

That is enough to settle the Man, who returns to his shop with mutters about seeing the other two upon the morrow. For her part, Khîm only expresses some amusement before seeming to recall something. With an entirely different demeanor—far more somber and respectful—she switches to Khuzdul as she puts a hand on Gimli’s shoulder and addresses him once more.

Legolas may not know how to speak the language, but he knows enough to pick out names when they are said, and he very clearly hears Glóin.

Gimli’s response—a nod and a brief rumble of acknowledgement—is telling enough on its own, but the truth becomes painfully clear when Legolas sees him force a smile and say something that he expects Khîm to take for a quip.

She does, to a point, chuckling softly before giving his shoulder another squeeze and retiring to her shop. Gimli stares at the space the Guild Master previously occupied, lost in his own thoughts.

Legolas takes it upon himself to help the Lord of Aglarond save face, stepping up and speaking as though he has gleaned nothing from that exchange. “Are there any other errands you might perform, then? Perhaps you need to make some deliveries for these shopkeepers before moving on?”

He is not expecting a particularly inspired response, but Gimli’s “Ach, what happened to the legendary patience of the Elves?” feels particularly lackluster. He starts moving again anyway, weaving through the other bodies milling about as he squares his shoulders in the direction of a staircase that will take them up to the third level.

Legolas keeps pace with a, “Thoroughly eclipsed by the impatience of the Dwarves. I had thought you might find comfort in a culturally appreciative show of impatience.”

And that is true, to a point.

He sees Gimli rouse as if to reply, only to settle for a grunt as he keeps his eyes forward. The air about him is not tetchy, but rather beleaguered and weary. With the hugely varied demands on his attention that they have encountered just this morning, Legolas begins to comprehend the greater context that drove his companion to send that letter, in all of its strangled formality.

Something tender and painful twists in his chest, aggravating the familiar old ache that resides there. It is awful to know that nothing less would have driven Gimli to reach out for help; that nothing less would have been defensible.

Legolas’ impression of the third level of the bazaar is that it is mostly raw materials sold in bulk—an industrial district, as it were. They leave the bazaar behind before he can glean much more, seeming to be traveling deeper into the base of the mountain. The tunnels they walk gradually become narrower and less refined, more utilitarian in nature. Legolas does not have to duck because the pathways are proportioned to accommodate Men, but there are certainly some moments in which his scalp prickles from flyaway hairs grazing against the stone above them.

“And here we are, Master Elf,” Gimli says after nearly twenty minutes of wordless travel. They reach the end of the last tunnel, and he steps aside with an expansive gesture. “The Greenhouses of Aglarond.”

For all that Gimli has shared the idea with him—even drawn a few sketches, so he may have a visual understanding—beholding the Greenhouse Project with his own eyes is an entirely new experience.

Because they are ensconced in bedrock, the plants are all grown in raised stone beds of various sizes. They seemed to be sectioned off into groups so as to better help the efforts of pollinators (be they bat or Hobbit, he thinks as he notices evidence of guano-based fertilizer in the beds), and there were a significant number of them, stretching much farther than one might expect. Winding in around and amongst the raised beds is a gently flowing stream. Though it is clearly diverted from its main source above their heads, it is only guided by a faint suggestion of a channel. No efforts are made to restrict naturally occurring splits that deviate from the main path, which seems to flow even deeper into the mountain—a source of live water for Aglarond’s other needs.

All of that is interesting, and the sight of so much verdant green is a joy and a balm to Legolas’ gaze, but it is the _brightness_ of the cavern that garners the most attention.

From his vantage, Legolas counts ten skylights some forty feet above their heads: immense, twelve-by-twelve-foot squares of glass thick enough to magnify the heat of the sun. They are set into secure metal holdings and guarded by steel panels that can be slid over them in times of siege through a pulley system. Each skylight seems to support a radius of several dozen feet. The clusters of garden beds are arranged cleverly, to take advantage of the different times of the day, and several mirrors pull the light into neglected corners to support more delicate crops.

It is also as warm as a hot day in spring, despite the fact winter is nearly upon them. The heat is coming in from the skylights, of course, but it is also rising gently from the bedrock below them, cultivated by the forges one level below. Standing here, Legolas suddenly understands why the Tooks of Aglarond are so content as their curly heads bob amongst the garden beds, some nearly obscured entirely by the effusive plant life surrounding them.

 _“Mellon,”_ Legolas breathes, deeply enchanted. “This is even more marvelous than you described. That does not happen often!”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help but overhear, and I believe I may have the solution to the riddle you have posed, Master Elf.” Legolas is not surprised that one of the Hobbits has been listening in, or the spring in his step as he bounces into view on bare, soundless feet. He hooks his thumbs into the pocket of his waistcoat and declares, “It is because Lord Gimli here does not have a true appreciation for botany, though he does try.”

“Aye, I prefer to leave the plant-talk to Ghríc, where it belongs,” Gimli says without ire. He gestures to the Hobbit. “Ponto Took, wee Ruby’s father. Ponto, this is the Lord of Ithilien, Legolas Greenleaf.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Master Took,” Legolas says with a polite bow. “I met Ruby not two hours ago, as it happens. She is a lovely young Hobbit.”

At this Ponto winces apologetically. “I can only imagine she was dogging you about the height and glow theory she’s been on about for the last week or so. Sorry about that.”

“I was happy to enlighten her on the truth of the matter.”

“Then you are a braver soul than I, though I do appreciate the pun,” Ponto mutters. Then, with a brief shake of his head, he clears his thoughts of the overwhelming Tookishness of his daughter in favor of turning to Gimli. “It’s fortunate that you should pop by, Lord Gimli. I was hoping you could flag Ghríc and send him my way, if he’s not left yet? I wanted to talk with him about the cauliflower matter.”

It is plain that Gimli has no idea what this cauliflower conversation is about, but he takes the reference in stride. “Ghríc left a week ago,” he says with a shake of his head. “He should be at the Lonely Mountain by now. If the matter cannae wait for a mailed response, do what you think best. I trust your judgement entirely, and I know he does, as well.”

Ponto is equal parts pleased and annoyed. “Oh, bullocks,” he mutters under his breath. Then he straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. “Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ll make the executive decisions as needs must. I am also happy to answer any questions Lord Gimli cannot, Lord Greenleaf, just ask for Ponto. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually rather should attend to that cauliflower matter now before there’s lasting damage.” With pleasant nods all around, Ponto Took takes his leave, and it isn’t long before he is hollering over the garden beds, “Prim! Prim, did Ghríc tell you when he was leaving, and you forget to pass it on to me? Primrose!”

With a small shake of his head at this display, Legolas nonetheless feels the need to remark, “I did find it odd that I have not interacted with Ghríc yet.”

“He shall be wintering there,” says Gimli. Though he speaks heavily, Legolas senses that his nephew’s absence is not the reason for it. “Paying respects for the both of us, while I take care of business here.”

The statement is all Legolas needs for his suspicions to be confirmed, and for his decision to be made.

“Whilst traveling here, I noticed that the winds already bore the fangs of winter,” he says, gazing out at the extensive gardens before them, as well as Ponto and Primrose in a now-hushed discussion about mind reading (or, more specifically, lack thereof). “I fear that those I left with the wagons may not be able to make the return trip before being snowed in, should they take the wagons with them. They will be eager to return to Ithilien—and given the current situation, I would not impose their needs upon you for an entire winter.”

Gimli’s gaze flicks over to him, and despite his guarded expression Legolas can see the question in his eyes. He can also see the wordless desperation for emotional support, and how keenly it is needed.

“Yes,” Legolas says, nodding as though coming to a decision. “I believe that wintering here with the wagons, and then taking them back myself in the spring, is the best course of action—if you will have me, _mellon-nîn?”_

There is a nearly inaudible breath of relief. Gimli swiftly covers it up with a, “I cannot fault you for prioritizing your people’s safe expediency back to their homes, and I seem to recall you having the appetite of a bird. If this is what you deem best, then you shall find no protest from me. Stay, and welcome.”

That old ache in his chest twists and pangs. Though this is the most he has ever been able to offer, it does not feel like enough. He wishes he could do better, to give the person before him everything he deserves and more. He wants to be able to make what Gimli is going through easier to bear. He wants to…

Well, there is no sense in thinking like that. This is what Legolas can do, and they are just going to have to make the most of it.


	16. FO 36: Falling Mountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas forces a sorely needed conversation.

Fourth Age, Year 36: Aglarond

In truth, Legolas’ presence in Aglarond changes very few aspects of daily life. There are still meetings to attend, feuds to settle, schematics to review, budgets to balance. Legolas is also similarly occupied, though in his case it bears the form of detailed action plans, decision-trees, and initiated correspondences that he pushes himself to complete by the time his people arrive with the food he promised.

If the Ithilien Elves are surprised by Legolas’ decision to stay, then they do not show it. Rather, they are more preoccupied with nodding in approval for the Greenhouse Project and outright gawping at the Room of Starlight, with its subtly rippling pool and soft lighting causing the walls to twinkle like the night sky with every flicker of the flames. They also observe with wide-eyed incredulity the sheer diversity of Aglarond—particularly its youthful Elven minority—and are often spotted murmuring enigmatically amongst themselves about it, though Legolas himself is usually missing from those discussions. However, the Ithilien Elves are courteous to all they meet, and tidy guests besides, which is really all anyone can ask for on such short notice.

They only stay for two days to rest and resupply before heading out once more, moving far more swiftly on foot than they ever had with the horses and wagons. Gimli does not think it was long enough for anyone’s mind to be changed, but he can see that they are all of them shaken up by the reality of Aglarond’s existence, and he privately considers that a good start.

Even with his notices on route for delivery, Legolas keeps busy by penning out ideas he has been meaning to explore, or ruminating on the logistics of when and how to implement new stages of development. If he is not doing that, he can typically be found in the Greenhouse with the Hobbits, exchanging lessons on plant lore, or—strangely enough—chatting amongst Ruby Took and her eclectic group of friends. All of which is to say, Gimli never fears that his companion is bored during the long hours he is sucked into his own business.

Installing a new Supplies Minister comes first, because he really needs someone competent to coordinate all the deliveries that are starting to come in from their allies. Bête is a younger cousin of Gimli’s own late mother, and is a retired wholesaler that raised four children of her own after her One was killed in an orc raid; if anyone can wrangle the proverbial herd of cats that makes up Aglarond’s supply chain, it is her.

“Why did you not apply for the job before?” asks Gimli when she accepts the position. He is more curious than peeved that someone like her did not volunteer the first time around, though there is certainly a small element of the latter in his heart.

To this Bête gives him a disparaging look. “What part of ‘retired’ dinnae make sense to you? I wanted to rest and explore!”

“And then you grew bored,” Gimli surmises with a nod. “Fair enough, I suppose, though I dinnae know how you lasted so long.”

“Because I know how to pick my battles, unlike some dwarrows I could mention.”

“I always come out alive on the other side, don’t I?”

To this Bête merely gives him the same unconvinced look that all mothers seem to curate after enough time. Though she is only a few years older than Gína, her life experiences have been such that Gimli is not unaffected by the power of it.

She pulls the papers regarding the semantics of her new post from his hands. “Git going, Gimli. I shall get this mess sorted for you, and make sure it doesnae happen again.”

Of that, he has no doubt. As he obliges, he thanks her once more, and is rewarded with a gruff growl of _“Git_ —oh, Mahal save me, how have we managed to survive in such a state…”

Gimli still meets with Bête to check in and provide what resources he may, but it does not take long to realize that Aglarond’s supplies and their corresponding chains are in good hands. There is also going to be enough food for the winter, thanks to the contributions from their allies. It will not be by a comfortable margin, but they should manage so long as there are no other catastrophes.

The situation with Eriador is not resolved as easily, not least because of the long weeks between replies. Aragorn—err, Elessar—was indeed suspicious of the arrangement as Eriador described it, and upon prompts to examine the paperwork was able to see the forgery in the imitation of Gimli’s seal. That is well enough, but Gondor’s contribution of emergency supplies is now tangled up in negotiations of what and how much of Aglarond’s product shall be recompensed. This has caused some upset in Eriador, who believe they should not have to return anything, citing the emergency aid from Gondor as fulfillment of their end of this bargain that should not have made to begin with. They are also now citing that same slap-dash bargain as their baseline for future trade negotiations, which is _not_ going to happen.

It is going to take months to sort this out.

As for the feuding Weapons Guilds, progress continues to be slow. Khîm and Bristol are at each other’s throats if Gimli does not force them to meet with him every week to hash things out, but that is an improvement from every few days, which is where they started. The key is convincing them that there is a market for each of their wares, and those markets seldom overlap—that way, production methods become as much of a non-issue as they can. No one need go to battle in defense of arms that do not interest the other’s clientele, for there will be nothing gained from it.

Which, of course, circles back to the most recent trade rates with clients such as Eriador, which has given them both cause for dissatisfaction and offense…

The going is slow, and frustrating, and there are several moments where Gimli’s patience is sorely tested. Legolas’ presence does not change the reality in which he finds himself, nor how _much_ all of it is.

He just makes weathering it all a little more bearable.

“I was starting to wonder if you would join us at all, _mellon,”_ Legolas remarks as Gimli trumps over with a tray of simple, high calorie food, accented intermittently by fresh vegetables. The kitchens are doing their best, but despite their impressive productivity the Greenhouses are not keeping pace with the number of mouths they now must feed, so most meals consist primarily of beans, grains, or potatoes. Thankfully, Bête reports that their cache of spices should hold out, so at least the highly repetitive food will taste like something.

It is yet another project to juggle, but Gimli, Ponto and some engineers are already working out plans for yet another expansion of the Greenhouse Project. Aglarond’s popularity cannot be her demise, not now or ever.

“It was a close call,” Gimli admits. “I nearly stole your horse and rode to Eriador to kill their Mahal-accursed emissary with my bare hands.” Without further comment, he takes the empty space proffered by the Elf, a rare luxury on such a crowded table.

While it took him a while to start, Legolas has taken to finding seats in the Hub at random and talking with whichever citizenry happens to be there. Now, halfway through the winter season, most people in Aglarond know his face, if not his name, and all of them treat him with the same casual amiability they show Gimli. It is not treatment befitting a visiting Lord and Prince, technically speaking, but Legolas has never been one to covet excessive courtesies. Rather, he has been reveling in his relative anonymity the same way he did for most of the Fellowship.

“And the only reason you refrained is out of your disdain for horses,” says one of the Men sitting at the table with a teasing grin. “It is well known, Gimli.”

This quip is received with a round of warm chuckles from all parties, including Gimli himself. Gimli still retorts, “Then why must you bore us with reminders of what every small child knows?”

“Dinnae let his size fool you, this one is still a small child in his head and heart,” comes the rejoinder from one of the Dwarves at the table. They jerk their thumb in the Man’s direction. “He just found out today.”

The banter and laughter continues, lively despite the less than exciting food, and Gimli feels his ire and weariness begin to lessen. Interactions with the people he does all this work for are a salve in their own right.

“Granddaughter of Arod though she may be, I doubt Faen would have permitted you to steal her,” Legolas feels the need to add. “If you had your heart set on a quest of vengeance, I likely would have had to come with you.”

Gimli makes a coarsely dismissive sound as he quaffs his ale, but privately he finds his frustrations have diminished. Oh, they will be back tomorrow, as surely as you find charcoal in a forge, but they do not weigh upon him right now.

That is the influence Legolas has on him. This is the difference between having him near and not—Gimli has moments to be _Gimli,_ not purely the harried Lord of Aglarond.

Though there is still another six weeks before spring starts to show its face to the White Mountains, Gimli finds himself dreading the end of the snow more and more all the time.

“Lucky for you and your delicate Elven constitution, my hunger eclipsed my blood-lust,” he says.

“Oh, to see such an irresistible force meet with such an immovable object. Truly, I was lucky this day!” Legolas laughs, and Gimli grins with pride despite the jibe.

Maybe it is the influence of their unspoken conversation from Legolas’ first night here, or perhaps it is something else entirely, but their rapport has never been so good. How things are now makes the comfort and ease with which they had been writing to each other look like awkward fumbling.

“Speaking of, what activities has our Master Elf been entertaining himself with?” asks Gimli with genuine interest.

Legolas gestures about as widely as he dares, with so many others around. “Claiming this table for my own. You are all merely guests to this domain I have established for myself.” He lowers his arms and indicates the bloated leather folder of bureaucracy pinned under one of his thighs. “I had quite the territory, before the dinner rush.”

“Indeed.” Gimli inclines his head. “My condolences, then, for the onslaught of correspondence you must have received when the mail arrived today.”

Legolas laughs again. “Thank you, Master Dwarf. Sympathy has been rare since the letters found me, and I have been in sore need of it.”

If ever there was any doubt between them, there is none now—and they agreed, rightly, that nothing would or could come of it. They have not broken this accord; neither has been in or even near the other’s quarters since that first evening.

And yet.

They are nearly always among the final souls to depart the Hub in the evening, and merely seeing Legolas after a long day of trying to find solutions to endless problems feels like a kind of medicine. It is those details that convinces Gimli they are breaking the very rules they set in place, somehow.

Perhaps it is just him? It would be best if it is just him.

It never is, though. He can hear it in the way Legolas speaks; his words to Gimli carry a warmth that is conspicuously absent when he converses with anyone else. Gimli might have presumed it to be a matter of familiarity, but at this point Legolas is as familiar with the people of Aglarond as one may reasonably be. He also never spoke to his own people with that level of warmth, the few days they were here.

Though they never discuss anything intimate with one another, their conversations _are_ intimate, in a way that requires nothing but the knowledge of where each of them would stand, if they could.

Gimli does not know how to put a stop to that. Worse still, he cannot bring himself to want to. At least, not… not until he must.

They spend the evening much the same as every other, publicly conversing and heckling one another—as well as anyone who happens to interject. It matters not what the topic is, so long as it is one they may approach together.

In the evenings, the Hub transforms into a place of music. Tenants retrieve their instruments from their residences and pockets of ambiance begin to form throughout the massive cavern. Some groups are holding impromptu competitions, others comparing regional drinking songs, others are dancing to lively tunes, and still more simply playing for the joy of it, not expecting a rapt audience insomuch as offering a pleasant background to games and discussions that happen nearby. Legolas and Gimli typically do not care which group they are folded into, choosing instead to participate in the antics of whichever is closest. Tonight, they have fallen into the last grouping.

It is that, Gimli thinks, which prompts Legolas. Under the cover of song and the rumble of dozens of other conversations, he says, “And so it seems, despite their frustrations, that each crisis is becoming untangled. That is good, _mellon.”_

“Would that they might untangle _faster,”_ Gimli grouses. “But yes, each disaster is being contained, one by one. One might almost call it a manageable chaos now, though ever shall I remember this year for its cruel final days of autumn.”

“Have you heard from your nephew at all?”

A cold stone drops in Gimli’s gut. He knows enough to see that Legolas is building up to something, and it is _not_ where he wants this conversation to go. They have already established that today was not to either of their liking, so what is he _doing?_

He shakes his head, and when he speaks he tries to feed as much warning into the words as possible, “I expected as much. The lad has enough going on.”

Legolas’ powers of observation, it seems, have been severely dampened by the cacophony around them. It is the only explanation Gimli has for why he can hear a blatantly dissuasive tone and still prod, “You know how your father’s funeral fared, though, I trust.”

Between Ghríc’s pointed absence to the condolences that plagued him the first couple weeks of the Elf’s stay, Gimli does not know why he expected Legolas not to puzzle out that Glóin died. He apparently did, though, because he registers a pang of surprise now.

“Aye,” he says, grudging and wary. “I received word from my sister a few weeks ago. It went as well as a funeral might, with stories and tears and the like.”

“You did not mention that at the time,” Legolas says, folding his arms on the tabletop and tilting his head in silent question.

It seems that subtleties of body language are not going to be the way of it, tonight. He needs to try something else.

“There was little enough to mention.” Gimli gives him a significant look. “And I know how Elves are about mortality.”

Legolas frowns, displeased. Good, perhaps this will stop him from pushing.

“I will admit Gandalf was my first significant loss, and I have had little formative experience since, beyond Boromir and Théoden, but my inexperience is not a shield for you to hide behind, _mellon-nîn.”_

Despite this rebuke, his gaze remains soft. Indeed, the use of the endearment is a clear indication that he is not cross. Gimli is not certain what else he expects, though.

Out of anyone, Legolas should know that some things are too acute—too all-encompassing, too _painful_ —to address directly.

Gimli does not know when thinking about his father became one of those topics, really. It must have happened while his focus was elsewhere, upon one of the many aggravations and upsets that have dogged him the last ten weeks, because it was not a conscious decision to make it so.

So it could have happened any time, for is his focus not _always_ elsewhere? The last several years Gimli has not been the son that visits or writes—at least, not half as much as he should. Glóin had understood the demands of building a new settlement from his own years rehabilitating Erebor, and had not begrudged Gimli the time that stretched between them, but Gimli always thought there would be an opportunity to make it up to him.

It is hard to make up lost time with someone whose time has run out.

And now _an immortal being_ is implying that he has not processed Glóin’s death fast enough! It is enough to make him grind his teeth as his blood runs hot. What do Elves know of haste? What do Elves know of _grief?_

Raging gasbag Thranduil may be, he is still on Arda. He can be approached, spoken to, argued with. He is still here, in a way Glóin never will be again.

“I resent the implication that I am so emotionally costive I must use you for a scapegoat,” Gimli growls to the Elf in an undertone, hidden beneath the music and merrymaking of his people.

“Gimli, you _just—”_ Legolas cuts himself short with a frustrated huff. Suddenly, he is on his feet and swiping up his sheaf of paper. “This discussion will not happen here,” he says, voice uncharacteristically stern. “Walk with me.”

By rights, Gimli should have refused. As a Lord, he should have taken grave insult to being ordered about in his own realm.

In actuality, he is too tangled up in anger and remorse and contradictions to muster the energy for indignation—and he does not think it wise to express this level of instability in front of his people, whether they are currently paying attention to him or not. He is tetchy, but he stands. Legolas waits for him to complete the action before turning on heel and stalking away in a stiff-legged manner that belies his irritation far better than the expression on his face.

And Gimli goes with him, like the weak willed, self-destructive fool that he is.

While he could easily outpace Gimli, Legolas does not. He maintains a brisk pace that they each use as an excuse not to speak to one another, and he never goes faster than Gimli can follow.

Normally, this effort would be appreciated as a courtesy. Now, it feels as though he is being mocked by being led thus. Now, it feels like assuming it for anything else is a grave mistake he cannot afford to make.

Why is Legolas so keen for him to talk about this? The topic is red-hot steel and Gimli has no tongs or gloves with which to handle it, does Legolas not see that?

How can he not _see that?_

Gimli is too busy fuming to notice where he is being led. It is the Greenhouse, as it turns out. He might have guessed. Where else in the Glittering Caves might an Elf prefer to go?

It is also, coincidentally, the most likely to be deserted at this hour—Hobbits, as a general rule, do not work after the sun goes down the way Dwarves might.

So perhaps there is a good reason to choose this locale. Nevertheless.

It is only when they have marched two or three gardens deep that Legolas whirls about in such a tight, precise arc that, for a moment, the ends of his hair become fine golden whips. It is a motion so like the stories Gimli has heard of the Elvenking of Eren Lasgalen that it catches him entirely off guard.

The Greenhouse is dim, boasting no flickering sconces or overhead lamps. The only light either of them may see by is what filters through the skylights. Tonight that is not such a burden for those without a Dwarf’s dark vision; the cavern is filled with the cold glow of a three-quarter moon nestled amidst a casing of delicate stars, and from what Gimli can glimpse through the skylights there are no clouds aloft.

“Why are you doing this?” Legolas demands, his eyes hard and flashing. “You were not like this in Khazad-dȗm. You were not like this for Boromir. What is changed?”

“What is _changed?_ Four decades and a Lordship, is what, or has that slipped—”

They are ripped from their bickering by the clanging of a metal watering can, and a muffled curse in Khuzdul as the can bounces several times and finally bonks against the base of a garden bed. The sound is impossibly loud, and seems to echo off every wall despite the dense crowd of plant life within the cavern.

For a moment, there is only tense silence. Then Gimli hears another partially obscured curse in Khuzdul, and he knows precisely who they are dealing with.

_“RUBY PETALINE TOOK.”_

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving!” says the young Hobbit hurriedly, her head of distinctive braids popping up from around the broad leaves of a squash two gardens away. “Mahal as my witness, swear upon my family tree, I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here this late!”

“What were you doing here in the dark?” Legolas cannot help asking.

“She’s a _Took_ , Legolas, what do you think she was doing?”

“It’s only a cucumber and a handful of strawberries!” comes the protest. “I wasn’t greedy, nobody was going to notice.”

“Ruby, we are in a—”

“I’m leaving right now, I promise!” True to her word, the lass is already scampering away on light feet. “And I’ll make sure there will be no wayward souls coming this way for the rest of the night.”

Gimli lets out a groan and rubs his forehead. “If you do not get moving now, so help me—”

“And it’s obviously your business how you quarrel, I would never attempt to tell you how best to do it, but in the northeastern corner the peas are climbing tall on their trellis and the stream is falling in from the divert higher up, and Papa likes to go there when he needs his mind to slow down. For what it’s worth!”

Ruby Took does not stay to see how they take this suggestion. With a soft slapping of bare feet, the unofficial Princess of Aglarond sprints away with her stolen fruit.

By this point, the momentum of their discussion is well and truly shot. Gimli, for his part, feels as hollow as the cavern itself. Every breath seems to simultaneously scrape him raw and rattle about in his emptiness.

“Do what you will, but I would like for my mind to slow down,” Legolas mutters, already moving. “If you would like to speak, you may find me in the northeastern corner.”

Never, in nearly forty years, has Gimli heard him sound so _defeated_.

There is shrapnel twisting sharply inside of Gimli as he follows, unbidden, drawn along by an unseen string. He wants to find some way to rewind time, to change his response to Legolas’ earlier prodding.

Well, he does not think he could change the heart of his replies—but the dressings, surely. Surely he could have articulated himself better than that, so as to avoid a silence such as this?

He has not been to this specific corner of the Greenhouse since construction was completed, but he thinks he understands why Ponto likes it. The stream makes for a small waterfall as it settles into the channel that guides it through the rest of the space, and the garden with the climbing peas is angled in such a way that this is a hidden alcove. If one was not following the path of the stream closely, one might not even realize this space existed.

When they reach the space, Legolas sets aside his folder of paperwork and studies the stream, craning his neck to look at the space in the stone above their heads, where it is falling in from. He visits the climbing peas, humming a soft tune and grazing the tips of his fingers over their leaves as he avoids Gimli’s gaze. From this vantage point one can even view the stars through the closest skylight, slightly warped by the thickness of the glass. Legolas looks up at that, too—anything but Gimli.

For himself, Gimli is slowly coming to terms with the fact he does not have a good reason for standing here. He has nothing to offer that might sand down the roughness he has displayed, or to reassure his companion that he is not a lost cause. He does not have anything constructive to say; there are no clever explanations for his attitude. An apology would not taste right upon his tongue, because he would not fully mean it for every layer of the conversation they had been having.

And it always comes in tiers, does it not? They can never just _speak_ ; it must always be meanings folded into one another like so many layers of steel. For all that there are moments it feels like they could be, things between Gimli and Legolas are never simple.

So, if he has nothing to say, why not leave? Why not permit Legolas this space and quiet, and just go to bed? Maybe, if he sleeps on it, the morning will bless him with the articulation he needs.

The very idea makes his muscles seize in a raw panic he cannot name. Perhaps there is some merit to the idea, but he cannot leave. Not now. Not while things are like this.

But then, how to address it?

It is a long time before they find anything to say to one another. So long, in fact, that the air between them recycles completely, evolving from tense to uncomfortable to faintly awkward—to now, where it is as close to neutral as it has been since Legolas started making references to Glóin.

Surprisingly, it is Legolas that breaks the silence.

“My mother sailed for Valinor when I was young, barely older than my majority,” he says, speaking softly to the peas and their delicate, gripping tendrils. He sounds far away, as though these words are being spirited in from somewhere else. “She was Silvan through and through, and her connection to the Greenwood stronger than any I have met, before or since. She knew the forest the way others know the face and mannerisms of a dear friend.”

Gimli does not know what to say. In nearly four decades of association, Legolas has never once broached the topic of his mother. It is only through context clues and observation that Gimli is aware she is in Valinor at all. To hear Legolas speak of her now is to be introduced to a side of his companion he never expected to have the privilege to know, and Gimli is not blind to the parallels Legolas is so deliberately drawing.

“When the Shadow fell upon the Greenwood, she knew it instantly,” Legolas continues, needing no encouragement. With deft movements, he assists one of the sagging plants in more solidly hanging onto the trellis. “And, almost as swiftly, the Darkness began to destroy her. She fought it, of course—Silvans hate sailing, did you know? They prefer to keep their feet on solid earth, if they can help it—but she was grossly overmatched. If a single tree is overtaken by evil, the entire forest does not die. It is not so with an individual; my mother did not possess the luxury of plurality. If my father had not forced her to sail, she might have remained—though I cannot say if it was for love of her family, or for the beloved forest she hoped to stay and somehow save, despite the way its sickness warped and poisoned her.”

This is not a story for ears such as his. It is too much—too intimate. No wonder Legolas avoids speaking of his mother. “Legolas,” Gimli says, his voice a rasp. “You dinnae have to do this.”

His companion does not look up, does not even appear to hear him. “I do not count her departure as a loss, because she is still alive. However, in the rush to save her life I was given no opportunity to wish her farewell, or leave to properly understand just how long it would be until we saw one another again,” he says with all the simplicity and conviction that comes from centuries of adjustment. “I was young enough to be selfishly bitter about that, and sustain that bitterness far longer than I would like to admit. It took allowing myself to feel the entirety of my hurt and anger, and forgiving both her and myself for mishandling the situation, for me to find peace.” He tilts his chin up to view the warped stars through the skylight, pale skin seeming to cast an ambient glow in the cold light. “I had not realized how similar that catharsis was to grief until you showed it to me, after Khazad-dȗm.”

There is an unspoken acknowledgement of the peerless grudge-bearing capabilities of Legolas’ younger self, but Gimli is still balking at how softly and systematically his companion is revealing this part of himself. Out of all the possible responses to being stonewalled, what made him think _this_ was most appropriate?

What has Gimli done—particularly in the last hour—to deserve this level of trust?

“Legolas, please, this…” But his throat cinches painfully shut, and Gimli finds himself unable to say what this is.

It is just as well, because Legolas is still not finished. He forges on as though he has not heard any feeble interjections. “My father has achieved no such peace. Though he has never admitted it, he grieves her as keenly as if she were dead, and the stifling has utterly changed him. He used to smile, you know—to laugh! Once, King Thranduil was affectionate, and drank water more than wine. And yet.” Though his voice remains soft and even, Legolas pronounces that last word with a disconcerting level of diction. “To ask, he would claim he misses her not at all, that a King is _above_ such drivel.”

Then, for the first time since the interruptions of Ruby Took, Legolas turns to Gimli. Their eyes meet in the dim light, and Gimli is nearly overcome by the helplessness he sees. Anger, he was braced for. Frustration, too.

He is not prepared for Legolas to look as though Gimli’s obduracy is breaking him apart.

“Tell me, Gimli: does this logic apply to Lords, as well?”

Neither the question nor its accompanying implications are subtle. It is challenge and entreaty all in one—if Gimli is truly not emotionally costive, as he claims, then he will prove it by doing the opposite of Thranduil and addressing his father’s passing. Gimli is the one who taught Legolas how to handle loss in a healthy way, by demonstrating it himself both in and after Khazad-dȗm; how can he be so inept at it now?

When asking for vulnerability, it is only fair to offer the same in return. Legolas is trying to show that they are equals in this, as they have been in everything else for the last four decades. He is trying to prove that he is safe, and does not intend to wield these moments as weaponry.

He is saying, as plainly as he can, that he cares enough to force Gimli to do what is good for him, even if Gimli is a granite-headed moron that resists him every step of the way.

He does not see—though he should—that, if they are avoided too long, some things swell to monstrous proportions and take on a terrifying life of their own.

“I would not say there is a logic to it,” Gimli manages, and he has throttled everything he thinks and feels for so long that his voice is bruised and hoarse from it.

Legolas’ expression becomes sharp enough to pierce as effectively as his preferred weapon. That is not enough—without context, it sounds like an excuse. If Gimli is to call a diamond a diamond, then he can admit it _is_ an excuse. He is making excuses to the one person who knows better—to the one person who deserves to know the truth.

After everything they have been through, has Legolas not earned that much?

“I would never presume to know the mind of a King, but I think there is a fear,” murmurs Gimli. It is easier to say this in the abstract, somehow, though they both know he is not speaking about Thranduil. “That to give in to such deep sorrow and regret is to lose oneself in it indefinitely.”

Legolas allays, the angle of his shoulders rounding out and the hardness in his eyes diminishing somewhat. “What have you to regret? Do you not believe he loved you?”

“Worse,” he croaks. “I knew it as solidly as I know the stone beneath my feet, and I did not deserve it.”

Already, he can feel himself breaking apart from the pressure. He has done so well digging himself out from the rubble of this cave-in, but this is the largest boulder, and it has always been most perilously balanced. When it falls, he knows—he has always known—that it will utterly crush him. Even if he manages to crawl out from under its weight, he will not be the same.

“Did not deserve it? _Mellon_ , you have become a living legend among your people.” Legolas does not make sweeping gestures to indicate the sheer ambitious scale of Aglarond. Rather, he manages it with a simple flick of his eyes. “What more could he have wanted?”

There is an irony to receiving this comfort from one of the people Glóin most resented, and it is not a kind one.

“A son who was not too busy for him!” The words are fire in his throat, but at this point it is the least he deserves. “One who saw him more than once every other year, who wrote to him more than once every few months. Everything else was more important than my own _‘adad.”_ Gimli grows quiet, then, and looks to anything but the waiting gaze in front of him. He says miserably, “If I could not find time for him while he was alive, have I the right to spare him any thought now, when I only do it for selfish reasons?”

“And if you do not acknowledge that he is no longer there, it is almost as though you still can still make amends,” Legolas realizes in a voice that is as soft as it is sad. “Ah, Gimli, we are far more similar than I feared.” He dares to take a step forward, narrowing the distance made for propriety and disagreement. It does not bring him close enough for touch, but he reaches out anyway. Instead of Gimli, his fingers alight on the shallow basin of the waterfall, caressing along the edges of the carved stone. “There is no solace to be found in those pretenses, _mellon-n_ _în.”_

In light of what he has just revealed about himself, if anyone would know then Gimli supposes it would be Legolas.

“Then where might I find it?” The question is more plaintive than he intends, and the words fall heavy in the space between them. “I cannot see escape from nor retribution for these failures.”

This is not how the distinguished Lord of Aglarond should be speaking. Gimli knows this. This is not how a competent leader conducts himself.

But none of his subjects are here to see this, and he is not speaking as the Lord of Aglarond right now. That is the downside to feeling more genuinely like himself around Legolas. In this moment he is no Lord, merely Gimli—and Gimli is swiftly losing the battle against the mountain of anguish and regret that is towering precariously over him.

With the son of the person his father hated as witness—as the only soul who knows Gimli well enough to see he is in pain to begin with—because he happens to be the one Gimli trusts most.

No matter how he thinks on it, nothing about this situation is respectful to his father’s wishes or memory. Glóin would have detested seeing Gimli like this, nearly cracked apart and laid bare like a geode as he stands before an Elf.

How is he supposed to reconcile these two things?

“Mistakes are what they are; you know as well as I that there is no escaping that. The only path that exists is forward.” Legolas’ tone is firm to begin, but it grows warm and melts as he continues to speak, maintaining eye contact with Gimli all the while. “If you believe you have not given your personal relationships enough time and effort, then you must redistribute your time so they become as much a priority as everything else. And,” he says a little hurriedly, averting his gaze to something just over Gimli’s shoulder as his hand falls to his side. “You must forgive yourself for needing this time and these events in order to realize it. Nothing less shall be effective.”

Despite the addition, the similarities between the state of things between the two of them what Legolas is actually referring to are so powerful they ache. From the painfully barbed silence that falls over them, as well as the way he is still gazing fixedly away, Gimli can see the reference was unintentional.

It is, however, not inaccurate. How does one justify putting more effort into personal relationships while conspicuously avoiding the one that means the most, anyway? Thus far Gimli has been consistent with his neglect, and there has been an inadvertent shield in that.

Self-destructive it may have been, at least things had been simple when he had avoided thinking about all of this.

There is no putting this dragon back to sleep, though. Whether he likes it no, wills it or no, at some point during this conversation the proverbial scales have been tipped. That Mahal-accursed chisel has tapped into something unfortunate once more, and now the whole mountain is coming down.

The only question left is how he will choose to be buried by it.

“I fear,” Gimli says, voice tremulous and eyes already raw and stinging. “That, in this moment, I am as far from forgiveness as one might be.”

It is hard to say whether his words bear more regret or warning of what is to come, though certainly they are heralds of both. This is as much of an apology as he will ever be able to offer.

It is these words which brings Legolas’ gaze back. He conceals nothing of his empathy, or his resignation, or his compassion. “It is a long, hard road to travel,” he concurs with a soft nod. “But faithless is he who says farewell when the road darkens. Is it not so?”

That opportunistic damn Elf.

Gimli’s bark of laughter for having his own decades-old words quoted back to him is swallowed almost entirely by an unexpected sob. “I shouldae known you would use that against me one day.”

He does not expect these words to put his companion in motion, or for the result to be their foreheads pressing together in that same poor imitation of the warrior’s greeting. This close, he can feel the tremors running through Legolas’ hands like an earthquake that is happening leagues away, can see the tumultuous emotion in those blue eyes as plain as day.

“Nay, _mellon-nîn_ , not against you,” he murmurs. “Never against you.”

Unbidden, Gimli’s hands rise. It is supposed to be to separate them, he thinks, to reinstall propriety to a location that is not technically private, but instead he clasps onto the wiry musculature of Legolas’ forearms as though they are all that is keeping him on his feet.

He has failed his father in so, so many ways. Perhaps it is best that Glóin will never be able to know how deep it goes.

“Birashagammi,” he whispers—to his father, to Legolas, for every failure and every missed opportunity, for taking this long to say it.

The admission brings with it the punishing weight of the mountain as it finally collapses, along with it everything he has been so afraid of. In one savage blow he is done in, the air torn from his lungs and the power from his limbs. The flames of it spiral up within him, cauterizing every façade of pride and dignity until nothing remains but a goose pen of anguish and remorse. The Lord of Aglarond is nowhere to be found as he crumples; it is only Gimli, only the wretched fool who did everything wrong by trying to do it well.

By rights, he should have hit bedrock when that mountain came down. Instead, he is steadied by hands that should never have learned how to dig through rubble like this, leant strength from a soul too precious to push away.

“You are not alone, _mellon_.” The words are a thousand years and leagues away, and yet they find him. They are the clearest sound in his ears, the point which anchors him in place.

There is cold moonlight illuminating every ruined piece of him. It does not feel as though there is anything left that someone could stay for.

“I shall keep vigil beside you.”

It should not be possible. It flies in the face of every likelihood. What has he ever done to deserve such care?

“There is no road dark enough to turn me away.”

Though it does not make sense—though there is every reason to leave, to do better elsewhere—Legolas remains the entire time. He remains, and Gimli learns there are some things that cannot be broken, even by falling mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul:  
> ‘adad = father  
> Birashagammi. = Excuse me/ Sorry (literally: "I regret")
> 
> You might have noticed that the year is now FO 36, and not 35. This is not a typo, it is simply a marker of how deep our protagonists are into the winter season.


	17. FO 36: In Another Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimli receives a suspiciously formal letter from Erebor.

Fourth Age, Year 36: Aglarond

They are perhaps two weeks out from the roads being safe enough to travel again when Legolas finally mentions that some parts of Ithilien need a level of stonework he and his people simply do not have the skills for.

“Frankly, it is something of a surprise you waited so long to bring it up,” Gimli says.

He does not mean to laugh at the scowl this response inspires, it simply slips out before he can redirect it.

“If only I had friends who were well networked amongst stonemasons. Friends who might have suggested a name for me to follow up with, when they saw the need in my realm more than twenty years passed,” Legolas says in a devastating deadpan that is not near as lost amidst the late-afternoon discord of the Hub as it should be.

Gimli laughs harder, but nonetheless spreads out his arms to indicate the citizenry that surrounds them. His intent had been for the gesture to make his point in the abstract, and to make a remark about being able to find a suitable stonemason by looking in any one direction until he sees a Dwarf with a pulse, but instead his arm bumps into Mírn, who happens to be passing by.

Actually.

“Just the Khazâd we need!” He snags the master mason by the sleeve and wheels them about. “Mírn has oft complained that they tire of the monotony of the work in Aglarond as well as Erebor—Mírn, what say you to enterprising in Ithilien? Legolas here has finally admitted that there are some things you cannae fix with clever botany.”

“I have not _complained—”_ Mírn begins to say, speaking over Gimli, but they pause as he continues, listening with growing curiosity and interest. By the time Gimli finishes speaking, he knows Mírn is all but committed to the new venture, and it is only a matter of formality that they ask Legolas, “What are you looking to have done?”

Gimli does not begrudge the logistical dialog that incurs after that, choosing instead to busy himself with his own paperwork, which is spread out before him on the long table. While he does have a proper Lordly study, he focuses better with the white noise of conversation and bustling bodies around him. There are, of course, matters too sensitive to be addressed out in the open—finances, incoming and outgoing mail, and projects being done for client-realms—but most of the work he does has immediate impact upon the people around him, and often betters from the input of experts that he flags down when they come to the Hub for food.

Conducting a goodly portion of Aglarond’s business out in the open, where any may look over his shoulder or submit their input, is undoubtedly a brazen act. It also breeds trust from the people he serves far quicker than he might have been able to curate it from an aloof study, tucked away behind the opulence of the official Receiving Room. With a population this experimentally varied, Gimli judged that their trust was more important than the potential confusion of someone mistaking drafts of architecture or legislation for the final product.

This is how the young dwarrow finds them some time hence, with Mírn and Legolas deep in discussion of Ithilien’s unique stonework situation and Gimli only occasionally interjecting to provide clarity or amusement. “News from Erebor!” she says breathlessly as she skids to a halt next to their long table, an envelope clutched in her hands. “Just come in. My orders were to bring it direct to you, Lord Gimli, instead of to your rooms.”

Something cold seizes upon Gimli’s heart as the youth holds out the paper. This is no casual letter, it is on the thick parchment of the King Under the Mountain, and closed with his personal seal. Though he feels made of stone himself, Gimli nonetheless forces his hand to move so he may take it from her, forces his mouth to say the approving edict, “Orders well received! Good work, lass. You have my thanks.”

The young Dwarf grins at him with dimples that her wispy beard has not yet obscured. “My pleasure!” she says, and with a quick bow she is sprinting off once more. As he watches her go, a dim part of Gimli wonders if someone with that level of energy might have made the nearly nonstop three day run across Rohan with as little trouble as Legolas.

And then it is just him and the formal missive in his hands. It is from this sort of letter that he learned of his father’s passing, and that grief is still too raw for him to do anything but wonder what new horrors he might find this time.

Eyes are upon him. While the rest of the Hub is busy about them, the thick stone neatly absorbing the din of conversation, the proximity of Mírn and Legolas means they would be remiss not to notice Gimli’s stillness.

There is no point in pretending that the delivery of this letter has not darkened his mood. However, that does not oblige Gimli to formally address it, apart from beginning to collate his paperwork. “It seems I must away to answer some mail,” he tells his companions, somewhat needlessly. “I will leave you to your productivity. If my presence is required, I shall be in my study.”

He does not look up from the bulky leather folder he stuffs the paperwork into, but there is no need to see to perceive the incredulity in their delayed response. There is nothing for it, though. Gimli makes no attempts at insouciance; he is obfuscating nothing—he has received an official notice from his King, and he is moving to answer it with appropriate haste.

“As it happens,” Legolas says at length, and Gimli can see the careful calculation lining his features. “There is enough information to make a draft of a contract for Mírn’s perusal, and such confidential work is not suited for crowds such as this. Is there extra space in your study, that I may join you in relative isolation? By your comfort and leave, of course, Mírn,” he adds with a respectful nod to the Khazâd seated beside him.

Mírn leans back with an amiable gesture. “I dinnae see how we may continue without something tangible to quibble over,” they say lightly. “I look forward to seeing what you draw up, Master Elf, for I believe this shall be a most intriguing venture, and I am eager for the challenge.”

“There is space enough,” Gimli grunts, though to say his mind is focused upon this conversation would be a misnomer. He has not heard from anyone since Gína’s missive regarding Glóin’s final rites. He cannot think of what else anyone may tell him—and certainly not with this level of formality. Worry begins to gnaw at him. “It may be some time there. I shall fetch a pitcher of water while you pack.”

He does not wait for a response before he is weaving his way to the kitchen window. Apprehension blurs everything he walks past, erases his memory of what he and the Man on the other side speak of nearly as soon as it happens. The next thing Gimli knows, he and a metal tray carrying a pitcher and some clay mugs are returned to Legolas and Mírn, who is making their departure. Gimli pins his leather folder of bureaucracy under his arm as he and Legolas set off for his study.

They make idle talk as they travel, he knows they do, because to be entirely silent would look strange to passersby. Gimli’s heart is not in the charade, though, and it shows in his minimal effort grunts and one-word answers. It results in Legolas primarily holding conversation with himself, mostly a review of what he and Mírn were thinking of for Ithilien’s infrastructure, but he does not seem to mind.

Mahal bless this Elf for his implicit understanding and selflessness.

Gimli’s study, like most private spaces in Aglarond, is not huge. However, it is dominated by a stately desk made of black walnut and wrought iron, and there is more than enough horizontal space that two may work at it, one from either side. Gimli sets the leather folder and the tray of cups and water on the sideboard before retrieving the striker to light the room’s two lamps. So, too, does he ignite the charcoal stove and set the water to warming next to a traditional kit of black tea. As much as Gimli prefers ales and liquors, he suspects he will need to keep his head after reading that letter; that means his options are tea or plain water.

“You expect foul news,” Legolas observes as Gimli withdraws the blasted missive.

It is not a question, and after the incident in the Greenhouse Gimli knows better than to attempt any evasive maneuvers. At this point, he cannot even bring himself to want to.

“The King Under the Mountain does not wield this level of formality lightly,” Gimli replies as he retrieves a small, sharp knife from one of the desk drawers and breaks the seal. He gestures for Legolas to make himself comfortable as he drops onto his chair. “The only times I have seen notice like this is when it bears foul news, or formal notice of policy changes.”

Legolas’ expression creases in a brief wince of sympathy. “I begin to understand your unease.”

“You did not have to follow me here.” Regardless of his feelings, it needs to be said.

“Did I not?” the Elf asks mildly. He is no longer looking at Gimli, but rather studying one of the beautifully decorated axes hanging from the wall. Though Legolas makes no outward mention of it, Gimli can see he knows the piece is not merely decorative. These may be peace times, but it never hurts to take security measures, just in case. Particularly when the population of one’s realm is so experimental—there are still those who resent him for what he has done to the Glittering Caves.

“Legolas,” he says in a tone of tangled gratitude and reproach. What he wants wars with what he should say, and after an expectant pause he lets out a defeated breath, bereft of the proper words for what feels like the first time.

“If it be the foul news you fear, _mellon_ , then those who care for you would not have you bear it alone, in addition to your existing burdens,” Legolas says, turning the deep blue of his eyes upon Gimli. He speaks simply, and were Gimli anyone else he might have missed the absolute immobility behind that tone. No road dark enough, indeed. It seems Gimli has somehow underestimated his companion’s tenacity when it comes to oath fulfillment.

“And if it be policy change, then there is no harm done,” Legolas adds. “For the first iteration of Mírn’s contract still must be drafted in privacy.” His declaration made, Legolas takes the guest chair on the other side of Gimli’s desk with all the deliberate grace and dignity of a King. He gives the anxiety-inducing letter one last, significant look before helping himself to a fresh sheet of paper from the stack on Gimli’s desk and wetting his quill to begin drafting Mírn’s contract.

To think the Lord of Ithilien has a reputation for being mild mannered. Any who believe that dragon dung have clearly never been bullied by him within their own places of power.

Or witnessed him singlehandedly take down an Oliphaunt and all its passengers.

Gimli will never say as much aloud for the sake of a decades-long debate, but that fierce display of ingenuity and bravery probably should have counted as more than one enemy. To this day, he is still in awe of it.

Legolas does not lift his gaze, or indeed stop writing; he simply clears his throat and makes a small nod to the letter that Gimli is so obviously avoiding. It is fortunate that avoidance is all Legolas thinks this delay has been because, Mahal save him, Gimli does _not_ have the energy to properly compart himself right now.

He has not possessed much will for it after the Greenhouse, if he is being honest, but some days it rallies stronger than others.

Nevertheless, now that he has been jarred from his previous thoughts, he finds there is nothing left to do but heed his companion’s less than subtle urgings to get this over with. With the seal broken, it is a simple matter of withdrawing the neatly folded paper.

_Gimli son of Glóin, Lord of Aglarond,_

_You are cordially invited to attend the royal wedding of Thorin III Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain, and Ser_ _í daughter of Ber_ _í. Proceedings shall begin on the summer solstice…_

Gimli is torn between laughing himself hoarse and feeding the Mahal-accursed invitation to the charcoal stove. A wedding—Thorin is getting _married_.

Finally, some might say. The Stonehelm has ruled Erebor for nigh on forty years as a bachelor, and every time Gimli has returned to the Lonely Mountain for personal and diplomatic visits he has heard increased uncertainty among the populace regarding the King’s lack of heirs. Thorin is an only child; he does not even have the option to uplift a niece or nephew.

Gimli has never met Serí daughter of Berí. This does not mean much, he supposes—Erebor is vast, and maintains small but consistent population influxes from the Iron Hills and the Blue Mountains—but he and Thorin have maintained a personal correspondence lively and regular enough to rival his and Legolas’. As such, Gimli finds it strange that he has never even heard this dwarrowdam’s name before now. Is this a political partnership for the sake of succession?

Distantly, as though in a dream, Gimli is aware of Legolas rising to attend to something on the sideboard. He thinks he may hear his name, or the lilt of a question, but he is too absorbed to pay it much mind.

Dwarves are not fond of marriages of convenience, as a general rule. Certainly, finding your One in the wrong social class can cause substantial upset, but all Dwarves realize there is no changing what Mahal has written on your heart. Still, a King without heirs is an equally unsettling occurrence, and Gimli knows that Thorin’s dedication to his people is as deeply rooted as his own. With enough pressure from antsy advisors and a nervous public, he might have allowed himself to be pushed to uphold stability over personal comfort. Perhaps Serí daughter of Berí has lost her One, or her One married another? Platonic partnerships like that have been known to happen.

That is when Gimli finds the other informal note, scrawled onto a far smaller and cheaper piece of parchment and shoved into the envelope as if on afterthought.

_Gimli_

_I can already hear your whinging about how sudden this is, and what a bastard I am for not mentioning this months or years ago. Save it, I have hidden nothing from you. It simply turns out that we have lived our entire lives only just missing each other, always in the same places but never at the same times. The only reason we formally met at all was when I broke routine some six weeks past… since that moment, everything has changed. I realized not how keenly I missed her presence until she was right in front of me, and I no longer had to._

_As such, old friend, I fully expect you to be friendly and polite to my intended. But keep the silver tongue and poetry to yourself! I would not have her questioning her investments._

_Actually, upon second thought, maybe do try to be charming. I think it might make her laugh._

_Warmly,_

_Thorin_

The informal postscript should have been entertaining—oh, to see the whimsical writings of a besotted King! To read the quips of an old friend!—but instead, the confirmation that this sudden wedding is evidence of the best sort of miracle only leaves an acerbic tang in the back of Gimli’s mouth.

Somehow, he never anticipated things might turn out this way. There was a poignant camaraderie to ruling their respective realms as Dwarven bachelors, one that Gimli never expected to be broken.

No. It is not that he never expected it. Rather, it is that he—perhaps cruelly—had hoped he and Thorin might cling to that lonely brotherhood until the bitter end.

Just because there is no changing what Mahal has written on your heart does not mean a single heart is enough to heal Ages of festered animosity. Different social classes amongst the same people is one beast, but accumulated millennia of hatred and bloodshed is a different creature entirely.

Gimli may be stubborn and optimistic, but he is not naïve, and he cannot be selfish. It is wonderful to hear that his old friend has found his love, and a relief to know he shall not be alone. From this moment, Gimli resolves, he shall only be happy for the Stonehelm and Serí daughter of Berí.

After all, it is not Thorin’s fault that Middle-Earth is as it is.

A clay mug full of steaming black liquid is placed next to his elbow, and that is all it takes to finally draw Gimli out of his own head.

“I sense there has been an unanticipated third option that is at once better and worse than you feared,” Legolas murmurs as he settles in with his own mug on the other side of the desk. “Is it something you have leave to speak of, _mellon-nîn?”_

And yet, as Gimli takes in the bric-a-brac of papers and metal and wood that separate them, the emotions that surge and crowd upon his tongue are reward enough, in their way. They have always been there, sloshing beneath the surface, but they are insistent and powerful now in a way they never were before this winter. Before Legolas saw the worst of him and did not turn away.

What sort of life would this be, if he could not know what it means to gaze upon his own better half? Though it comes hand-in-hand with the acute discomfort of inaction, how could he ever forsake moments like this, where he is all but overwhelmed with adulation for the simple, perfect reality of this person’s existence?

Gimli has yet to speak—what is there to say? How may he voice these truths without doing more harm than good?—and his uncharacteristic silence causes his companion to frown and gaze upon him with concern.

“Gimli, are you alright?”

He does not know how to answer the question. There is no good answer for it. He simply turns the invitation around and passes it over. It is written in Westron, so Legolas will have no trouble reading it.

“Ah,” he says after a few seconds, though his dark blonde brows are still dubiously furrowed. Those blue eyes flick up, searching. “Do you find it a poor match?”

Gimli shakes his head to clear it as well as to dissuade the theory. “I havenae met the bride, but Thorin assures me,” he holds up the personal note “That she is his…” He trails off as an agonizing realization slams into him and steals his breath. To stall while he attempts to collect the pieces of his own shattered paradigm, he takes a sip of the—

Every hair on Gimli’s body stands on end, and his eyes near bug out of his head; it is all he can do to swallow what he has taken into his mouth. That is not an easy feat when the tremendously over-steeped beverage tastes like a mouthful of iron filings. “Durin’s sweaty nutsack, Legolas, did you use the _entire tea block?”_ he asks, looking in horror between the Elf and the mug before him.

Legolas winces in a mix of apology and sheepishness before he admits, “I thought it seemed a bit dark.”

“You think?”

“In my defense, _mellon_ , I did ask for tutelage. You were otherwise engaged, and did not respond.” Then, at Gimli’s own grimace, he tries to explain. “Most Elves prefer green tea—and the leaves are always kept loose, never as a block.”

Yes, that is right. As he says that, Gimli recalls the scant handful of trips he has taken to Ithilien over the years. The occasions were such that there had always been something better to imbibe, so he had not given the pale Elven tea a second look, but he remembers now the little wooden bowls and their lids with notches in them for the handles of dainty spoons.

“The block is for ease of travel. You use the serrated spoon to chip away at it, and control portion size,” says Gimli faintly, still fixating on the mug. It even _smells_ wrong—how had he thought it would be okay to put that in his mouth?

“Until approximately five minutes ago, I had not known you to have a taste for tea at all,” says Legolas softly. “Much less the intricacies of Dwarven tea ceremony.”

The statement carries far more weight than it should, and for a long moment contemplation of its every poignant implication is all they have in common.

It starts as a short exhalation, a tired sigh that fringes on defeat, and then he is laughing, and laughing, and knuckling away the tears as they stream from his eyes. “Nearly forty years,” he gasps. “And you cannae even make _tea.”_

“I am afraid not.” Legolas spreads helpless hands. The air about him is thick with regret for being unable to say different. “It seems I make for a shameful Dwarf-friend.”

Gimli’s mind flashes to another reality, one where this conversation is a joke they make to each other as they languish in the comforts of domesticity and long years of partnership. A life where there is no question that the other half of him knows he drinks black tea when there are hard decisions to be made and he needs his wits about him, no uncertainty about his culture.

And then he lands, crumpled and sorry, once more into this moment— _this_ life—and the most treasured person in it does not know every possible aspect of him, as he should. He does not even understand that he has the right to.

And Gimli cannot say if, in this life, addressing that ignorance would cause them both more injury than it heals.

It is unfair. Unequivocally, fundamentally, it is _not just_. Why must he sit here, across from that which he cherishes more than anything, and never be allowed to name it so? They did not ask for this predicament in this world. He did not ask for his heart to be writ thus, displayed thus, denied thus.

And now he is the only bachelor left among the Dwarf Lords, fated to be surrounded by their bliss without ever attaining his own.

“And, of course,” Gimli says, his voice wavering and more forceful than he intends. “You would also know nothing of Dwarf courtship, let alone weddings.”

There is a silence, wrought with the sharpened hooks of remorse and acknowledgement, and it is agony.

“I have never needed to learn,” Legolas eventually whispers. Though his eyes are glassy, there is also a fierceness rallying behind them. Within his gaze is a blossoming defiance that mirrors Gimli’s own.

Gimli’s study is remote, located beyond the seldom used Receiving Room, in a wing of Aglarond that exists primarily for the sake of those who would never feel comfortable enough to live here themselves. It is a rarity that any pass by this room, though the few that do are nearly always more consumed with their destination than the journey.

“To that point, while matrimony is not something I am ever likely to partake in, for myself,” Legolas continues. His every word is as deliberate as it is fragile: the tremulous exposure of something so intimate and raw it shall never see the light of lamp or sun again. “I would nonetheless welcome the knowledge for its own sake, if you would share it, for I have always been curious to know.”

It is a small concession, in the grand scheme of things. The answer to a question neither of them have or shall ever give voice to; an arrangement that will never be realized. There is no potential for eavesdropping, and there will be no follow up.

“Aye,” he says, his mouth dry and his heart in his throat. “But in doing so, I must confess my own complete ignorance of Elven rituals. Perhaps you could educate me in turn?”

A part of Gimli cannot believe he is actually saying this aloud, after so long, but the rest of him is too riled up with defiance to care. What they want is impossible, but just once—just _once_ —they can pretend this is the shining, magnificent life where the opposite is true. Where they can give this a name, and they do not have to act as though they find it anything less than beautiful.

Legolas nods once, with a quavering exhalation that belies his own mixed emotions. Nevertheless, Gimli can see his honesty when he says, quietly, “That seems a fair exchange, and I would be honored to be that which enlightens you, _mellon-nîn.”_

Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the tea headcanon goes to my friend spookymodernjazz, and used with his permission.
> 
> I very much broke my own heart in the writing of this, if that is reassuring for anyone.
> 
> I thought about going into the rest of the conversation—this rehashing of cultural norms and customs, and looking into each’s reaction to it, but I felt it would be redundant in lieu of 1) all the details Gimli dropped about dwarf culture earlier in the scene, and 2) 90% of the fics in this tag reviewing the same details, in some form or fashion. Which is to say, I didn’t think it would add to the emotional payoff of this scene, and I couldn’t add enough new content or spin on the information anyway.


	18. FO 36: Strikethrough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mail-in correspondence resumes once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should say upfront that there are some sentences in this chapter that are purposely unfinished, with words hanging at the end of the paragraph without punctuation or strikethroughs. It made my beta a bit twitchy to see it, but it is my hope that the context of these unfinished sentences will help you forgive me.
> 
> Also, I was asked a fair question in the comments, and the asker likely wasn't the only one to wonder. To that end: Elven sexuality/romance in this story is canon-compliant. And if you've ever read Sansukh (which, if you're reading any Gigolas fiction, I presume you have), that's essentially what I headcanon for dwarves as well. As I said before, I have nothing new to contribute in that sense, and didn't particularly want to waste your time with rehashing fandom tropes when I could be breaking everyone's hearts, but it is fair to want it established since other authors challenge convention every once in a while.

_Gimli,_

_By the time you receive this letter, I shall be returned to Ithilien for three months, more or less. Mírn survived the trip well, and seems to be settling with all of the alacrity I have come to expect from Dwarves. Their reception has gone better than expected. Which is to say: there has been some level of tension and mistrust amidst the Elves, and the small contingency of Men that now lives among us has been far more amiable. I believe the latter is likely credited to the fact they are all of them from Gondor proper, and have had time to adjust to the assistance of Dwarves these past twenty years, as your people ply their craft on Minas Tirith._

_M_ _írn has endured it all in good humor, which I might have found admirable before this last winter season. Now, I see it for what it is: they feel no sting from subtle jibes and insults when far worse is regularly spoken to them in jest. Small wonder you took so much in stride during the Quest of the Ring!_

_They also do excellent work at an astonishing pace, and that—if nothing else—has quelled most whispers and complaints. The population of Ithilien shall adapt, whether they prefer it or no. I had not thought Elves slow to change before, but compared to what you have wrought in Aglarond I begin to wonder._

_Speaking of, perhaps you recall the Silvan Elves who left Eren Lasgalen to put distance between themselves and my father? Specifically, Cellimben who tends to the burgeoning Rosewood Hall, and our Horsemaster Redoriel? Well, you might be interested to hear that both have asked after you and your wellbeing. Each was a little gruff, of course, but they did ask. As neither has done this before, I am taking it as further sign of our warming rapport, and maintain my optimism that between us shall one day blossom a genuine friendship. Slow to change, indeed!_

_I was extremely pleased to find that very little has gone fallow during my winter absence. There are always matters that are best tended to in person, of course, and I have been kept busy working through that backlog, but it is not half as mountainous as I feared!_

_I am sorry it has taken me so long to send word to you. I wish I could blame it entirely upon the backlog, but that would be untrue. ~~Rather, I have written draft after draft~~ Several times have I approached my desk with the intention to write, wishing to share the many delights and frustrations of daily life, and found myself strangely bereft of words the moment I put pen to page. ~~I have ruined so many sheets of parchment~~ I had not anticipated that nearly four months of companionship might make the transition back to letter writing ~~painful~~ difficult in any way._

_In truth, I think back to my time in Aglarond often. If I had not stayed, I may never have witnessed the ambitious majesty of the Greenhouse Project or enjoyed such raucous laughter amidst such happily diverse peoples. So, too, I might have never learned to enjoy the smokey depth of a properly brewed Dwarven black tea. Thank you for instructing me on the proper brewing method, incidentally. M_ _írn and I are able to take turns preparing it during our meetings, now; I think it helps them to feel more at home. ~~They never ask why there are moments I lose my voice and fall quiet~~_

_I am happy to be back in Ithilien, surrounded by sweet air and green things and bright sun. Slow to change they may be, but I love my people, and I dearly missed them while I was gone. Thinking of what we may accomplish together is invigorating, and seeing those possibilities made manifest even more so. ~~But I am a heart divided~~_

_I make this disclaimer because there are still moments I wish to be somewhere else. Within me is a simmering discontentment now, and I do not know how to subdue it. It was never so before, and while I could never regret_

_I have struggled, these last three months, to balance everything I want to tell you with the practical limits of what I may express. It has never been this hard before, Gimli. I have burned so many letters that I wanted to send, but every time I sit down to try again, it always devolves into that conversation in your study. It is never far from my thoughts. We spoke until early morning, and ever did your eyes smolder like coals when you looked at me. It was as you did not feel the late hour at all._

_I lied the next day, when I told you I slept well. I slept not at all. There was no reverie to be found when my head was spinning with everything we said, wondering how things might have been different if we were anything other than that which we are. Everything hurt the way it did after the Battle of Morannon, except my person was perfectly sound._

_We cannot possibly be the first two to realize how markedly similar spousal bonds_

_Were we right to speak so? I cannot say anymore. A part of me wishes to return to my previous ignorance, because at least then I would be yearning for something I could not name. To understand what I am missing is the sweetest sorrow I have ever known, Gimli, mel_

_I do not know how to write to you anymore. Dearly do I want to, but how can I_

With a tormented breath of frustration, Legolas sets his quill down and pushes away from his desk. The movement is so sudden that the candles flicker in their holders as though shivering for this outward show of temper. He stalks barefoot through double doors leading outside under the pergola, where his toes can dig into soft loamy soil and he can be soothed by the gentle southern breeze susurrus through the thick waxy leaves of the jasmine vines above his head. Even then, he still itches to move, and works through his frustrations by pacing the paths of his personal garden in the mild evening air.

This is not working. It is clear he cannot be trusted to simply let himself write, the way he used to. There needs to be a curation process, some censor he can apply to himself.

But how? What? There are no others he may ask to edit his letters down; he must do this alone.

Except he cannot seem to manage that.

It has been _three_ _months_. He needs to send something—anything!

Legolas lets out another breath, softer this time, and forces himself to stop. Forces his mind to slow down, takes time to clear it as best he can. He focuses upon the breeze, the smell of jasmine and dark, crumbling soil, the rush of a river less than a league away. There is peace here, within himself and without; he just needs to find it.

When he finally feels prepared to face his writing desk again, the beeswax candles are burning low. There it still enough light to reread this latest attempt at correspondence, though, and to realize that the first page is perfectly acceptable. It is only when he attempts to apologize for not having sent something sooner that things fall apart.

Perhaps the solution is simply to cut things off there. It is stiff and distressingly impersonal, yes, but considering how many attempts he has made at this point Legolas is not certain he can do better.

It takes only a moment of indecision before he is scrawling his signature along with a brief postscript about having more to say next time. Then, for good measure, he folds the severely truncated missive into an envelope and seals it with wax. There. It is done, and there is nothing more for it. He shall send it off with the next postal pickup.

Legolas hopes that the jaggedness within him shall be smoothed over with time and practice, that he will once again feel at ease with paper and pen. He hopes Gimli is not suffering from anything similar.

He does not dare risk this second page being discovered, and burns it in the last flickering of one of the candles before spreading the ashes amongst its fellows in the garden before heading to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This level of achey hurt/comfort was not my intention when I first started this story, but having gone through two years of a long-distance relationship where we only saw each other two or three times a year, and feeling the pain of separation getting worse every time, I think writing the more painful parts of this story has become some kind of autobiographical, at least in spirit.


	19. FO 55: Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A delivery arrives with suspicious haste, and Legolas and Cellimben investigate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new arc, and I STILL can't seem to get my perspective switch-off back in order. Ah, best laid plans of mice and men... 
> 
> Fun fact: sapphires come in every color except red. If they're red, then they're called rubies.

Fourth Age, Year 55: Ithilien

The order arrives early. So early, in fact, that the wagon is routed to Mírn's Stoneworks after it is mistaken for a shipment of standard supplies. Mírn's is the sole business in Ithilien that regularly receives large deliveries from Aglarond, after all. It is only after the neatly labeled wooden crates were uncovered that the connection is made to the Rosewood Hall and Legolas is notified.

That is the story as Cellimben explains it, anyway. Legolas is not overly concerned with the reshuffling insomuch as why his order has arrived in such haste. Finishing touches are still being made on the Rosewood, and the dual celebration for both its completion and Ithilien's fifty-fifth anniversary of is weeks out.

"Perhaps the Lord of Aglarond did not wish you to worry?" suggests Cellimben. "I know that I find the crystals' presence reassuring."

Legolas does not begrudge her this fixation. For as much as she poured into the cultivation of this Hall as chief horticulturalist and architect, it is hardly any surprise that she feels as much ownership over it as he does.

"The plan was for the Lord himself to arrive with the delivery a week before they were needed," says Legolas, frowning at the five crates stacked just inside of the Rosewood's entryway with a burgeoning sense of disillusionment. "I begin to suspect that timelines are not the issue insomuch as _timing,_ friend."

"If that is so, there is likely a note somewhere," she says logically, and sets to opening the crates one by one for inspection. After some shuffling, he hears, "Ah, yes! One of these things is not like the others."

Indeed it is not, for amidst the straw and crystals nestled in their broadcloth wrappings is another box of polished maple. It has wrought hinges of bronze, and carvings of maple leaves are curling over the lid and sides in an unseen breeze.

If there were any suspicions that this had come from anyone other than Gimli, then this craftmanship negates them. There is no mistaking his breathtaking attention to detail, or how this piece echoes the design of the desk in the rooms Legolas keeps in Aglarond.

The box itself would have been gift enough for most, but Gimli has never been one to do things by halves. Inside is a sealed letter, an unfolded cover letter, a bottle of Gondorian wine from ‘35, a hard block of black tea leaves with accompanying steeping kit of sterling silver, and a small velvet pouch containing hair beads of twinkling green sapphire with white-gold fasteners.

Upon seeing the contents, Legolas says in a carefully neutral tone, “Ah. He’s not coming, then.”

“How can you be certain without reading the note?” Cellimben reaches into the box and takes out the cover letter, but quickly discovers that it is written in Westron, a language she speaks but cannot read or write. With a sigh of mild irritation, she passes the brief missive over to Legolas so he may read it aloud.

_To the Good Lord of Ithilien,_

_Though the early arrival of this order may come as a surprise, I hope it finds you sound, and the Rosewood Hall all that a structure made of living trees should be._

_As you might have suspected, there has been some upset on my end._

_In the writing of this, I am currently in the eye of the storm that is the wedding of Ruby Took to my own heir and nephew, Ghríc. Due to the logistics of planning this event on such short notice, and of being overrun by so much extended family, I will be unable to attend the celebration of Ithilien’s fifty-fifth year. It has been all I can do to wrangle the newly betrothed into submitting to a date that all our allies may attend without having to choose between this and other, much longer standing, events._

_The wedding shall be on the final day of next month, incidentally. I seem to recall your mention of having family stay for an extended period after your own celebration, and do not begrudge it if you are already committed._

_Please accept these small tokens of my esteem and apology for any inconvenience this may cause._

_Regards,_

_Gimli son of Glóin, Lord of Aglarond_

Cellimben looks between the cover letter and the crates of delicately shaped crystal. “It’s likely he sent these in advance so they wouldn’t be lost in the chaos, or absconded as wedding decoration,” she wisely surmises.

“Very likely,” Legolas agrees. “Hosting the entire extended Took family is no small task.”

“Better or worse than hosting your father for two months?”

Legolas starts to protest, but then he recalls that Cellimben is one of the Silvan Elves who jumped on the chance to leave Thranduil’s lands, and how many long years it took her to stop punishing Legolas for the sin of being related to him. It is only in the last decade or so that her frosty courtesies have finally thawed to the friendship they currently enjoy, and he knows the Silvans of Ithilien are all on edge about Thranduil’s first visit to the realm since their exodus.

He allows a small sigh for lost causes as he replies, “Far better company, but feeding that many Hobbits is going to be a significant undertaking, and I do not envy it.”

“That’s right—you spent a winter there, some decades back,” Cellimben realizes. She looks to him with a true gossiper’s glint in her eye. Long years as the Rosewood’s primary caretaker have given her an irrevocable taste for hearsay and observation, and Cellimben clearly does not regret this change to her disposition. “Did you meet this Ruby Took that the Lord of Aglarond mentioned?”

“I did, though she was only an adolescent at the time.” Legolas fights a shiver of apprehension at the mental image of Ruby Took deciding she wanted you for a life partner. He might have guessed that the unofficial Princess of Aglarond would find her way into legitimate power one day. “She was charming, if…” He trails off, uncertain of how to phrase the concept of Tookishness to one who has never experienced it firsthand.

“If what?”

“It is difficult to describe. Have you ever come across Redoriel when she is training apprentices?” asks Legolas.

It takes Cellimben a moment to understand how the behavior of Ithilien’s resident Horsemaster (and their mutual friend) factors into their discussion, but once she does her mouth opens in a silent ‘oh.’ “Well, I have never met the Lord of Aglarond’s nephew, but I wish him luck with that,” she says faintly.

“One can only hope young Ghríc has inherited his uncle’s demeanor in that regard, or I cannot imagine he will be making many decisions for himself in the future,” Legolas agrees as he starts gingerly tucking everything back into the exquisitely carved box.

The movement draws Cellimben’s attention back to all the gifts, just in time to see his fingers still over the tea kit.

The handle of the spoon has a custom engraving of a maple leaf encompassing the crystal star of Aglarond. He missed that detail during his earlier cursory glance.

It takes conscious effort to breathe through the cinching pain that is rapidly forming in his breast. How long has Gimli been putting this together?

“Did he make all of those trinkets himself?” Though Cellimben lilts her voice as though she is asking a question, her gaze is knowing. Something about Legolas’ reaction or the work itself has sparked the older Elf’s intuition.

Legolas forces himself to put the tea set back into its soft leather pouch without lingering too long on the bittersweet memories of his first time using one. Nearly six decades of practice is the only virtue keeping his voice even and clear as he replies, “It seems so, yes.”

“I knew the Lord of Aglarond was eloquent, from his handful of visits to our fair realm,” she says, gazing upon the gifts with new admiration. “I had not realized he was such a talented craftsman, as well.”

“He’s a Dwarf. All Dwarves are craftsmen, as Mírn would be happy to tell you.”

Cellimben makes a considering noise. “Does this Dwarf send such elaborate apologies to every soul he has mildly incommoded, do you think?” she speculates, and apprehension begins to gnaw at him. “He may have cancelled a week-long stopover and attendance to an already crowded event, but he fulfilled our order well in advance to give us time to install it without him, and he has a good reason.”

“I cannot speak for Gimli, of course,” he says judiciously, speaking as he slides the sealed letter between the wine and the side of the box. Afterwards, he gently closes the lid. “But he has been known to turn small provocations into instances of generosity towards his friends, and to do it in ways we cannot politely refuse. I suspect this ‘apology’ is one such instance.”

To this, Legolas’ friend raises her eyebrows in boldfaced disbelief. “Do I look a hundred years old to you? You cannot possibly be arguing that this—” she gestures to the gifts “—is merely a token of friendly generosity.”

This is becoming increasingly difficult to brush off. It is true that Cellimben is not the most even-tempered Elf, but she is not typically so mercurial, either. For what purpose does she make this argument with such verve? What does she hope to gain by pushing this subject?

He needs to stop her before she goes too far.

“If he says what he means in plain terms, Cellimben, then you and I cannot presume to know better,” Legolas says, sharp and authoritative. He is holding the maple box in an increasingly firm grip, so tightly that his muscles quiver. “Diplomatic incidents have been started for less. I shall take the gift in the manner it was intended, and there shall be no trouble here.”

Legolas’ leadership in Ithilien—and, indeed, his friendship with Cellimben—has always been derived from mutual respect and maturity. Her occasional passionate outbursts are never directed at him, and Legolas likewise keeps what little temper he has on an even keel. For them, these are entirely new grounds.

As such, he expects Cellimben to flare and spark, expects her to challenge him again. She does not. Instead, the older Elf sloughs her aggression like a wet cloak and gazes upon him in a wretched mixture of loss and pity. “Can you truly not see these as painstakingly crafted gifts from one who is in love, Legolas?” she asks. “Is it simply that? Do you not grasp how deeply you are cared for?”

Everything stops.

His breath catches in his throat. His thoughts freeze. His blood is thundering in his ears as he is rendered immobile, unblinking, doing nothing but clutching that precious, splendidly crafted box with numb fingers.

_Never_. Not once, in nearly sixty years, has anyone spoken to him about this. Not directly, not in the abstract, and certainly never to _defend_ —

Unfeeling and without strength, his fingers lose their hold on the wood between them. He does not notice the way it slips from his hands until it is far, far too late to react.

Everything Gimli must have spent days and weeks creating, finessing, curating—this manifestation of every tender thing they have never said aloud; this treasure chest of unfulfilled promises; this proud declaration hiding beneath the flimsy, politically correct veneer of contrition; this most heart wrenching and sincere apology. All of those thoughtful, beautiful things. They fall, and every breath Legolas has ever taken leaves his lungs in a howl of ripping anguish.

If there is a crash, a shatter, a sickening _crunch_ , then Legolas does not hear it. He is lost and wounded. He cannot breathe. He is regret made manifest. Is this what it feels like when grief consumes you? Is this why Elves are supposed to avoid mortals?

What is he going to tell Gimli?

He hears his name. He hears his name.

It is a labor to answer. He blinks. He shakes his head. He tries, but he is a very small fish swimming the wrong way in a mighty river.

Why is everything so blurry?

_“Listen to me, Legolas._ I caught it for you. Everything is okay. It is _okay_. See? Nothing broken.”

His vision is filled with pale wood carved with the leaves of the tree it used to be, whole and without splinters. It moves, and his vision moves with it, and then he is crashing headlong back into his own body. His knees buckle from the force of it, and Legolas has to brace himself on the sturdy, rough boards of a crate as he sinks onto them, gazing upon the impossible miracle being waved before him as though he has come face to face with Ilúvatar himself. Legolas stares until his eyes burn and his vision swims. When he finally remembers how to blink, he realizes there are silent tears tracking down his cheeks.

He blinks again, and he is surrounded by towering rosewood trees and dappled in mid-afternoon sunlight. He blinks again, and his friend Cellimben is crouched down and delicately setting the treasure chest of his heart on the flagstone before him. Her movements are slow, gentle, careful. She gazes at him with heartache and understanding and pink in the whites of her eyes.

“You never told anyone, did you,” she murmurs. It is not a question.

Wherever his voice has gone, it has not yet deemed to come back. Legolas is too overwhelmed and raw to be embarrassed, and far too tender to attempt at a lie. He simply shakes his head as he wipes the moisture from his cheeks.

“Please tell me he knows,” she says softly. “At least him.”

Cellimben does not seem to mind that he keeps looking away from her to check on the little box of treasures, to make sure it truly is unbroken. That is good, because Legolas does not know if he can help himself right now.

“He knows,” he tells the box, and his voice is a coarse shadow of its usual self, but at least it is there.

Outside is the hustle and bustle of Ithilien reborn, Elves and Men talking and laughing and conducting their business. The population has more than tripled since that first delegation from Eren Lasgalen, with immigrants coming from Gondor and Rivendell and Lorien, now. He can hear their accents mingling in the Sindarin and Silvan and Westron they speak to one another, just outside the window shapes formed by the rosewood trees. Instead of being off in the distance, Rosewood Hall is just outside the radius of the city center. This settlement is thriving more and better than Legolas ever could have hoped, and he is exceedingly proud of it.

And he knows that the one who pushed him to do this, to try—he knows there is a good reason for that absence. He knows the Lord of Aglarond has his own responsibilities, his own people to think about, but—he wishes Gimli could be here, too. For once, just _once_ , he wishes…

Delicately, as though he is a wounded animal and liable to spook, Cellimben settles onto the flagstone with him. “And you have never…?”

Legolas’ head snaps up, and he meets her eyes fiercely. “Do I look married to you?”

“That was poorly phrased,” she admits with an awkward grimace. “And the decision is not without merit, politically. I understand that—but there are… other things. Besides marriage, that—” Cellimben gesticulates nonsensically “—can be done.” Her hand slaps back down upon her thigh, and while she seems a little lost regarding the logistics (she is also unmarried), she still looks upon Legolas imploringly. “He does not have your luxury of time, is what I mean to say. Surely this little box cannot be the only…?”

Legolas turns away, and his friend makes a pained noise in the back of her throat. “Oh.”

“Concessions beget concessions,” he says quietly, even as he reaches for the glaringly large one resting on the stone. He trails his fingertips over the blessedly whole lid of the box, reassuring himself of its solidity, before pulling his hand back to himself. “In the long term, it is best not to give oneself a slippery slope to tumble down.”

Like now. He is so close to the fall of that slope right now. It is as terrifying as it is invigorating.

Once more, Legolas listens to the sound of the people outside. His people, working together and working hard to make Ithilien thrive. This is not a self-sustaining settlement; it still requires guidance. It still requires a leader who will not lose himself to a gift sent in apology.

He has had his moment of weakness. Now it is time to carry on.

“You’re lucky if you see each other once every few years,” Cellimben realizes as everything that has been going on in the background for decades truly percolates. “This weeklong visit was—”

“—An opportunity for two old friends to reminisce about adventures long past, and congratulate the milestones of each other’s work. Its cancellation is a mild inconvenience,” Legolas says, and with every firm syllable he wills Cellimben to understand that neither of them may dwell on this. Not while there is so much to do. She knows now; there is nothing more for it. They must continue anyway.

Legolas wipes the last dregs of overreaction from his face and pushes himself to stand, neatly scooping up the maple box and setting it off to the side. Then he holds his hand out to his friend so he may help her to her feet.

The older Elf says nothing as he hauls her upright, merely gives him a searching look. “You would have me do nothing,” she says in a tone of mild accusation. Wordlessly chastising him for perpetuating his own heartache.

“If you are willing, I would have you help in changing the minds of others, as yours has been changed,” Legolas tells her. “Or has your opinion of the other Free Peoples always been so charitable?”

Cellimben does not have to reply for her answer to be apparent. In lieu of that, she says, “That is a long road you seek to build, my friend.”

“It is, undoubtedly. But the work is made shorter when there are more hands in the building.”

His friend stares at him for long moments, her expression somber but otherwise unreadable. At length, she says, “I will help as much as I may. But you should know, Legolas.” She places a strong hand on his shoulder, and looks upon him in earnest. “That I am truly sorry he could not be here with you.”

Legolas lets out a long, slow breath through his nose as all of the emotions he has only just beaten back well up in his chest, and he inclines his head in understanding for what she is actually trying to say. “Thank you, my kind friend. I am sorry, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This arc came out of nowhere. I knew I wanted some kind of check in around this time-frame to help the pacing of the story, but there was no real inkling as to what that might look like, and I avoided it as long as possible for lack of ideas. The original concept for this scene was sans 90% of the drama that made it into the final version—it was supposed to be a quiet conversation of acknowledgement between friends—but now I think this may be my favorite chapter in the whole of this story.


	20. FO 55: Meanwhile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in Aglarond...

Fourth Age, Year 55: Aglarond

He never should have sent that box.

The thought comes upon him fiercely, and during moments for which there is no reasonable inspiration.

“Ruby Took,” he groans, loudly and with exasperation. “You cannae take over the Hub for your wedding reception. There isnae other place for people to eat!”

The Hobbit, who reached her majority more than a decade ago—and thus should _know_ better—gestures pointedly around them. At the walls themselves, ostensibly. “Where else am I going to put everyone?” she says, not for the first time.

And then it happens. _I should never have sent that box to Ithilien,_ Gimli thinks, apropos of nothing. Not the least of which, because there are things in it that Legolas cannot use. If Mírn or any of their people hear of the hair beads alone—

“The menu is hardly changed from our standard fare anyway, Uncle,” Ghríc says placatingly. “And with the way the Hub gets some days, I doubt the difference will be worth attempting to cram everyone into the Great Hall.”

“I have thirty first cousins,” says Ruby flatly. “Just _first_ cousins—and aye, some are not keen on a wedding outside of the Shire and shall not be making the trip, but the rest will be bringing spouses and children and Brandybucks who are curious about what all the fuss with the Glittering Caves is about anyway, and I am telling you, Uncle, they _will not_ fit in the Great Hall. We need the Hub.”

Then there is the whole mess of his imminent family ties—something Gimli does not mind overmuch when it comes to Ruby and the other Tooks of Aglarond, for they are his people, but he is torn about suddenly being related to the _entire Took clan._ Politically, it is actually excellent—but personally?

Gimli is not certain how he feels about being related to Pippin, even by marriage.

He really, really should not have sent that box to Ithilien.

What else could he have done, though? What else was good enough, after cancelling on such short notice? How else could he have communicated—

“All of Aglarond is invited, bar none,” Ghríc reminds him, not unreasonably. “None shall feel as though they dinnae have anywhere else to go.”

“And those who don’t like parties were never going to like it,” Ruby adds dismissively. The new crystal beads in her braided curls—prototypes of the marriage beads she will don after the wedding, and doubling as markers of her betrothal—sparkle in the lamp light. “This is going to be a party so big Mahal hears about it.” At this she pauses, a little sheepish, before straightening one of the carved bone buttons on her elaborately embroidered waistcoat and admitting, “By design as much as by accident.”

“Might as well be by design, sweetpea. There’s no helping the size of our families,” Ghríc says with a placid shrug.

Much as Gimli hates to admit it, Ghríc’s shrewdness and steadfast disposition is a marvelous foil to Ruby Took’s effusive energy and boundless conversation. They are of an age, relatively speaking, but Tooks seem to hold on to their youthful foolishness longer than other Hobbits. It is only in the last handful of years that Ruby has been able to sit still long enough to entertain a meaningful conversation—and as soon as she learned Ghríc to be one of the few Dwarves with an interest in botany, she has never been far from him. In truth, a part of Gimli is impressed it has taken her this long to claim his nephew.

With a heavy breath, Gimli relents. “I will be directing any and all complaints to the two of you,” he warns.

To this Ghríc nods his acquiescence, and Ruby flashes her most charming smile, and Gimli realizes that was the compromise they had been hoping for. Mahal help any stupid enough to speak up against them.

They are going to do so well ruling Aglarond together.

Damn it all, he should _not_ have sent that Vala-accursed box.

And so it goes. Gimli orders more food from Gondor and Rohan’s markets for the oncoming swarm of Hobbits, coordinates with his Ministers to make sure there is enough lodging (or that there will be, by the time all the guests arrive), confirms how many Dwarves will be traveling in from Erebor and if the Stonehelm and Serí will be among them. He reviews plans to once again expand the Greenhouse Project, chairs the biannual meeting of the Weapons Guilds, and consults his engineers regarding the location of the next crystal vein and how they may most efficiently reach it. In the evening, he drinks ale and sings songs in the Hub to the music of a Dwarven fiddle and an Elven harp.

That is when he spots it.

It is just as one of Ruby’s kin stands atop a bench to belt out his favorite drinking song. He has enthusiasm aplenty, but he cannot carry a tune to save his little halfling life, and the Dwarven fiddler and Elven harpist are struggling to keep up. Laughter breaks out as the Hobbit switches keys and octaves with alarming swiftness, and the fiddler swears as she goes too hard and a horrible screech emits from her instrument. With a good-natured breath of defeat, she settles the fiddle in her lap and watches along with everyone else as the harpist’s fingers fly over the strings almost too quickly to see. The Elf is laboring to match the Hobbit’s deliberately wayward singing, sweat dotting her brow and her lips pressed into a thin flat line of concentration.

The laughter fades into an admiring hush as the harpist continues, the only sounds from the crowd that of the flurry of trilling chords and the halfling’s increasingly erratic singing. Even then, the harpist keeps pace. Her instrument is large enough that she can hit lower notes as well as higher ones, and by virtue of her long arms she is able to manage it—if only barely, in some instances.

Finally, the Hobbit runs out of song to sing. But the harpist is still there, fingers poised over her thrumming instrument, out of breath but still looking expectantly on with fire in her eyes, waiting for the next verse.

The crowd releases its collective breath and bursts into applause and laughter. Toasts are made in the harpist’s honor, and the Elf finds her feet just long enough to do a cheeky Dwarvish bow with an “At your service.” Mirth erupts anew as she slumps back into her seat, grinning and wiping sweat from her cheeks. She accepts a goblet from the fiddler, who makes active conversation about the challenge and the damn Hobbit’s vocal range. As she does so, her fingers are, for a moment, covering those of her companion, and she stays a few heartbeats longer than needs must. Then the transaction is completed, but their smiles are softer. Just a little.

They are very subtle. Very careful. If Gimli were anyone else, he never would have noticed, but he knows that smile all too well for it to be anything else. Those two are something more to one another, he is certain.

It makes him smile and his chest tighten in yearning, all at once. Good, he thinks as he takes a hearty gulp of his ale to hide his reaction. Good.

“You,” says Ruby from the other side of the crowd, throwing out her arm to point dramatically at the musical duo. She does not bother to stand from her place in Ghríc’s lap, but she also does not have to: if ever there is a soul with a voice that carries across crowds, it is Ruby Took. “Are going to be at my wedding.”

There is a chorus of groans and chuckles. “Yes, Ruby, we _know,”_ says one of the Men who grew up with her, playfully exasperated. “Everyone and their most stubborn mule is going to be at your wedding.”

“She’s asking if you would consider an instrumental duet during the reception,” Ghríc translates helpfully.

“Yes, exactly—thank you, Ghríc! Why was that so hard for _you_ to understand, Elias?”

The harpist and the fiddler swiftly exchange a look that Gimli also intimately recognizes, and the fiddler calls back, “Why not? We willnae be able to escape your matrimonial takeover of the Glittering Caves. Might as well play a set.”

The resulting laughter the quip earns all but entirely masks the muttered conversation in Khuzdul that happens between two diplomats visiting from Erebor. Gimli sips his ale and keeps his gaze averted from them, so they do not know he is listening.

“Mahal wept, whoever heard of a Dwarf playing second fiddle to an Elf?”

“Literally. And at a wedding of a Dwarf and a Hobbit, no less!”

Gimli knows better to challenge dissent like this himself. If the founding of Aglarond has taught him anything, it is that people need to vent, and they will always find ways to do it, whether you like it or no.

“True, I have not heard of anyone marrying a Hobbit, but they’re fine creatures. Two Hobbits killed Sauron with their bare hands and furry little feet, if you read the histories—marrying into that isnae something you want to use for kindling!”

A reluctant grumble. “Well, I suppose you’re right. Thank Mahal for Hobbits, and all that. Nothing compares to Shire pipeweed, either.”

He checks on the harpist and the fiddler, but they have lost themselves to comparing the merits of ballads and lively dance numbers. Likewise, Ghríc and Ruby have settled into banter with their friends. Well, at least there is that.

“I take your meaning, though. Aglarond was better when they didnae allow for Elves. What was Thorin thinking, letting Glóinson force _that_ through?”

“The lad has done some beautiful work, but the War addled him. Now he takes things too far. Too far, by half!”

Why did he send that box to Ithilien?

“Oy!” The sharp voice does not come from any of the parties the delegates have insulted, but rather one of Aglarond’s Dwarven citizens. She speaks in Westron, so that all may hear and understand this rebuke. “I didnae realize fifty years is all it takes for The Lonely Mountain to forget they arenae the only ones who speak Khuzdul.”

The statement causes a silence so tense and potent that the sound of someone clearing their throat is actually jarring. Every soul in attendance is aware of the implications of whispering in Khuzdul in a crowded room, even if they cannot speak it. Perhaps especially.

The inside of Gimli’s chest goes cold, and his lungs are summarily caught in a merciless vice. Mahal help him, he should _not_ have sent Legolas that box.

Though Gimli has not been hiding his presence, he has also not been drawing attention to it. As such, over the course of the night’s casual merrymaking he has effectively faded into the stonework. He had not intended to call attention to himself this evening, but it seems that now is as good a time to depart as any. He does not think the vice in his chest is going to loosen its grip any time soon, anyway. Perhaps it is best that he retire for the day.

He breaks the stillness and tension by rising from his bench and stretching languorously. He says nothing to anyone, because to speak up would diminish the impact of this departure. Instead, Gimli ignores the eyes on him as he finishes his ale and dutifully returns his tankard to the kitchen receiving window. By the time he takes one of the many tunnels leading away from the Hub, the only question he hears is “How long has he been here?”

The chatter that erupts in his wake—the significance of his wordless statement—should have felt more satisfying. Instead, he is thinking of falling mountains. Of a half-whispered conversation, and over-steeped black tea, and what it feels like to miss someone for half a century, only to let them down in the end.

If Legolas were a Dwarf, he would have recognized that damn box as the marriage gift that it was. Now? Now it is an object of remorse, the only thing Gimli could think to offer that might come close to proving how _much_ he wanted to be there. That might come close to showing how greatly he admires everything Legolas has built, how proud he is of the person Legolas has grown into, how esteemed Gimli is to play even the smallest role in his life.

A riddle: how does a soul known best for his words communicate properly cross vast distances and cultural difference, when saying what you actually mean is not an option?

Dwarves have night vision, but even they are blinded by absolute darkness. Nonetheless, when Gimli reaches his rooms he moves with the confidence of complete familiarity as he finds the striker and lights the sconce on the wall beside his worktable. The scarred wooden surface is cluttered with discarded drafts of the letters he enclosed in that Mahal-accursed parcel. There is also a singular, rectangular space in the upper corner that is touched by neither dust nor paperwork.

The box had been finished for years, made in fits and starts from moments of strangled longing such as this. It had never been Gimli’s intention to do anything with the trinkets, but…

Though they were made by his hands, they were not _his._ From the instant the projects were complete, they had belonged to Legolas, whether he realized it or no. Could Gimli truly be faulted for passing along what were, by rights, Legolas’ possessions?

Even if he cannot use the hair beads without causing the scandal of the century.

Even if he prefers green over black tea, and Elves carry theirs loose in bowls and sachets instead of blocks.

Even if he never drinks the wine that commemorates the year he wintered in Aglarond.

He can use the box! No one will think twice of an Elf with a box engraved with leaves. That, at least, will be perfectly innocuous.

All the better to hide the incriminating trinkets he never should have received in the first place.

With a huff that is equal parts suppressed grief as it is prickling, nervous energy, Gimli sits at his worktable and brushes aside the substandard iterations of ‘this is not what it looks like’ and ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am’. He shuffles a stack of ‘I would have you tell me everything that happened, in as much detail as you remember. Regale me so thoroughly that I feel like I was there, gazing in awe upon the splendor of the Rosewood with you!’ and piles it on top of a particularly brazen ‘There are no words to properly describe how impressive you are, and how proud I am to know you. ~~How I wish we~~ ’

With his workstation as tidy as it is going to get, Gimli flips one of the failed letters over and reaches for a quill. He is far too uncomfortable within his own head to sleep, which means he must do something with his hands. Perhaps he will sketch an idea for the Greenhouse Project, or draft a letter to Thorin about his gossiping bureaucrats—or, literally anything instead of inadvertently creating another cache of useless objects that belong to Legolas. Legolas does not need more things, and he does _not_ need to know this is what Gimli does when he cannot distract himself from yearning for things that cannot be.

Despite his good intentions, Gimli finds himself sketching ideas for a ceremonial knife. There will be filigree on the cross guard, giving better dimension and color to the ornate shape of maple leaves, and the blade shall be engraved…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: In Which Gimli Is a Useless Gay
> 
> Additionally, and apropos of nothing: Gimli seems to be under the impression that Ruby Took thrust out an index finger and declared that the unfortunate Dwarf she pointed to would be her spouse one day. It has no bearing on this story—or indeed any others, since they are OCs—but in my head I imagine it was more complicated than that. Oh, it probably started with a declaration, for Ruby has ALWAYS known she will marry a Dwarf, even if the Dwarves around her don't realize—and Ghríc has the dubious distinction of being an ultra rare Botany Dwarf. However, I see Ghríc needing a lot of convincing to accept a partner who is not only ~60 years his junior (relative maturity levels or not, that's still a LONG time), or beholden to a One Love. The idea usually devolves into some comedy of errors in which she swaggers up to him and her flirtatious "Heyyy Ghríc, how are you today hot stuff?" is utterly shut down by a placid "I'm fine, Ruby. Have a nice day" as he continues on without pause. Gotta try harder than that, Princess!


	21. FO 82: Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The years pass, as is their wont, and Gimli checks in.

Fourth Age, Year 82: Aglarond

Fewer and fewer of his friends are left now, and each departure leaves a deeper scar than the last. An age of peace is, ironically, the time in which every death is acute and hard-hitting, as though you have never before grieved the passing of a soul. As though there had never been a time you were so numb with grief that news of yet another lost friend only earns a heavy nod as you somehow find new ways to keep trudging onwards.

It has been more than eighty years since the War of the Ring, though. Gimli supposes they are lucky to have lived so long, even if the last few decades have been increasingly full of somber notices bearing news that his friends have stopped waking up.

Well, the friends who are Men, at any rate. The older Gimli becomes, the more he begins to see the truth in a sentiment expressed by one of his Elvish tenants, equating the brevity of a Mannish lifespan to that of a morning glory flower.

“They are left nearly as soon as they have arrived, gone in a blink before the rising sun—but while they remain, they are such bright, beautiful colors,” she said with a sadness in her eyes that made Gimli think she was more familiar than a casual observer.

It is a trend amongst the Elves that have made Aglarond their home, Gimli’s noticed. They are either young and eager to explore, or they possess a poignant understanding of mortality and their existence outside of it.

The longer Aglarond exists, the more Gimli believes that it should have existed for generations.

It is Faramir, this time. This notice does not hurt as much as Èomer’s did, nearly twenty years passed, for Gimli was not as close with Faramir, but it still gauges a new mark into his heart. Slowly but surely, the older generations are departing. Soon there will be very few souls left who were not raised in peace and unity.

It is, he thinks, a deeply bittersweet victory.

But Gimli is used to weathering grief. It is something he has done nearly all his life. This hurts, but it will pass, as all grief does.

No, Gimli is more worried for Legolas. For as much older as the elf is, he has not experienced half as much loss in his life, and the last several years have consisted of fewer and fewer pleasant Royal Excuses for the gathering of allies. Gimli is especially worried for this one, because he knows Legolas and Faramir worked very closely together. Ithilien is not its own country, after all; it exists within the realm of the Reunited Kingdom.

The last time Legolas lost someone he cared this much for, it had been Gandalf the Grey falling to the Balrog in Khazad-dȗm. Gimli still remembers the conversations they had in Lothlorien about loss, and how heart-wrenchingly ill-equipped the Elf had been to handle it.

At this point he is also aware that Elves are uniformly awful at processing sorrow. Allowing it to overwhelm them is the primary reason they sail for the Undying Lands, after all.

And therein lies Gimli’s biggest and most private fear: Legolas has abstained from setting sail for nearly eighty-five years. He is remarkably steadfast, to be certain, but even he must have his limits.

It is monumentally selfish to wish that Legolas continue to abstain for the remainder of Gimli’s own mortal lifetime. He cannot and will not ask the other to stay, for there are no defensible grounds upon which to do so, but he also cannot but hope that Legolas might find and maintain his own reasons to continue resisting the call of the Sea.

It is true that Gimli has endured the deaths of others many, many times before, and he knows he will have to endure it again. Despite this multitude, however, he truthfully does not know how he would react if Legolas departed Arda during his lifetime. Even the threat of it causes him to tremble, and in the back of his heart he suspects that is the one loss he will not eventually recover from.

It is these thoughts that prod him to add a post-script to his most recent Ithilien-bound letter.

_I know Faramir was a dear friend of yours, and upon hearing the sad news of his passing my thoughts immediately turned your way. How do you fare?_

He does not receive a reply for nearly two months, but that is to be expected. Letters such as the sort they have been exchanging the last eighty years are far too lengthy to be entirely written in one sitting. Often, they are patchworks of different ink colors and consistencies, with sections clearly written with a more leisurely hand than others. They each attend to their private correspondences as they have the time, and delight in the delivery of the most recent installment. The letter in which Gimli asked the question about Faramir had taken nearly six weeks to turn around.

When Legolas’ response does arrive, he adds in his own post-script:

_The news was, indeed, quite saddening. However, considering that our friend lived to the grand old age of one-hundred-and-twenty years (thanks to some amount of D_ _únedain heritage), it is my understanding that he did far better than most of his race. In fact, Faramir often joked that any time after one-hundred years, for a Man, must be a kind of karmic interest for the investments of a life well lived. The new Prince Elboron is quite prepared for his inheritance, and I find we have a warm rapport._

_All of which is to say, I was quite prepared for the passing of our mutual friend, and am doing well in the aftermath. I thank you for your concern, dear Gimli, but it is misplaced. Do not worry for me._

Defensive, Gimli decides upon reading this. Yes, Legolas is being entirely too defensive. There is simply no way an Elf on the receiving end of so much mortality can be so well-adjusted.

So it is that he eschews responding to the rest of the letter right away, and instead sends an advance missive:

_Your letter has been received in its entirety, but this cannot wait._

_There have been at least ten significant deaths amongst our friends over the last fifteen years alone. Dragon dung to ‘doing well’. If you truly are fine, as you say, then how are you managing it?_

Perhaps he is being unduly harsh. Gimli considers this long after his advance has been passed along, and it is too late to make edits or take anything back. Perhaps he has allowed his own worries to leech too much into what he is perceiving in Legolas. Perhaps he should have waited a day or two before sending that notice—it is not his wish for Legolas to feel as though he is being attacked, not that one would know it to read his words.

He need not have bothered with second-guessing himself, because Legolas is as unruffled as ever in his reply. If he reads any of Gimli’s true fears between the lines of his original accusation, then he also senses the reasons feeding them, for there is nothing but warmth and amusement in his lettering, starting with the informal greeting:

_Dear Lord of Aglarond, and all of His Nannying Inclinations:_

_I suspected you might press this issue, and I am not so prideful as to misunderstand your skepticism. Whereas your people endure and overcome grief, mine absorb and internalize it. When we accumulate too much, we seek to shed it like beasts who have suffered long a winter and finally lived to see the spring. We retreat to the Undying Lands, and the grace of the Valar therein numbs us to our woes for time immemorial._

_As my people have done this since the Second Age, perhaps there is a wisdom in there somewhere. I saw it so, once, but even with memories that never tarnish I find can no longer understand why. These days I prefer to express my sorrow, and then find solace in the love of those who remain and care for me._

_This life is too grand for us to allow pain to bog us down, is it not? There is a poignant beauty in knowing we are capable of such depth and attachment, of course. But then, as the river sweeps down the mountain side and carries all that fall into its waters, unerringly, to the Sea, so too must we allow our friends enjoy the Gift of Men, which we elves and dwarves will never truly know._

_Perhaps this philosophy sounds familiar?_

_Be comforted by the knowledge that I am not merely parroting your rhetoric back to you; this is truly how I have come to see my relationship with our mortal friends. That is why I know that I am alright. And, if there are moments in which I am not, I know that I will be. You have taught me much, my dearest Gimli. Or did you think I had not been listening all these years? I would hate to learn that you only ever spoke out of love for the sound of your own voice._

_Nevertheless, do let me know if you habitually read these missives aloud, and in the future I shall endeavor to add more ‘ayes’ and a ‘Mahal-cursed’ or two, for your comfort._

_As ever,_

_Legolas_

The signature is made with particular flourish, featuring far more loops and swirls than usual and lavishly usurping a full quarter of the parchment it is written on. It seems Legolas thought his final sentiments had not been impertinent enough.

It is that, more than anything, which reassures Gimli. Legolas has never been the sort to play at levity he does not feel. Elvish grief and melancholy is as unhurried by time as everything else about their race, and this response has been returned in a two-week period. It might be a personal best, actually; the only other time he remembers Legolas responding this quickly was after his Glóin’s death.

All of which is to say, if Legolas can casually harass him like this, then Gimli can believe that grief has not swallowed his companion whole just yet.

He does not remember how long the fear has been tightening his chest, the tension aching in his shoulders. He only realizes it now that a warmth he so keenly missed begins to spread over him, loosening his stiff muscles and allowing him to breathe easier, even to laugh. Legolas is alright, and so Gimli is alright.

For all that they have pointedly gone out of their way to keep themselves from intertwining, Gimli is still irrevocably linked to him. He cannot pinpoint the moment in which he lost that battle; perhaps it has always been so.

The initial wave of relief has receded, and he is finally able take Legolas’ remarks in the spirit in which they have been written. The laughter, which had been tentative little huffs until this point, now fully takes root as he relaxes, becoming a full-fledged roar as he looks once more at that hideously ostentatious signature, already devising a way to even the score.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's occurred to me this chapter might need an explanation, in lieu of the tension and heartache that has been ratcheted higher and higher these last several chapters.
> 
> It is my theory that, over the long decades that this fic spans, our protagonists go through periods where they almost feel at peace with their situation. Particularly when they haven't seen each other in a few years, and fall into a lull where letters are all they have. There's no romance, but there is still emotional support and a damn good rapport, and there are times in a person's life where the simplicity of that is all you're looking for. I am hoping to illustrate with this chapter that this support is more valuable and fulfilling than kisses (though the latter would, undeniably, be nice). Just because this is not the life they fully wanted does not mean that it is not a nice one, or that it is not worthwhile.


	22. FO 120: Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our protagonists reflect, and a decision is made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading this far. Thank you to those who feel moved to share their thoughts and feedback. Thank you for leaving kudos, or simply for giving this contrary, overblown short story a chance.
> 
> As a final thought, I initially put "I am not prepared to die on this hill" as a tag on this story, because my personal hope is that our boys got married at, like, Helm's Deep and then lived happily ever after until the end of their days. You might have noticed that tag is no longer there. This is not really because I have changed my opinion, but rather an indication that 70,000 words is a little too aggressive for the claim to be realistic. ~~And also because I am writing a sequel~~
> 
> It is very hard to claim you don't want to die on a hill in a universe you're planning to return to. Wouldn't you say?

Fourth Age, Year 120: Minas Tirith

All mortals die. Even long-lived mortals such as the Dwarves. Even impossibly great heroes of legend made flesh, like the scrappy Dúnedain ranger Aragorn son of Arathorn, who braved his own greatest fears to help save their world.

Even the universally beloved King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom.

There was no illness, no heart failure. Nay, the great King simply went to sleep and never woke back up. It is the best any mortal might hope for, and a befitting end to the Man who brought about so much peace.

King Elessar is survived by his wife, Arwen Undomiel; his quite middle-aged successor, Eldarion; his two daughters, Edenith and Edraithiel; and his seven grandchildren. All his kin are hale and whole. By all accounts, it is a best-case scenario.

Gimli still wept to receive the letter. To call his tears bitter would imply there was something about the King or his life that was not well-lived, or that there was something Gimli never had the chance to say, and that would be untrue. Elessar had been a dear friend to the last, and there is nothing that Gimli would change about their association. Nevertheless, he sobbed to the news that one of his oldest friends was gone in a way he has not since he finally permitted himself to mourn the death of his father.

It has been a long, long time since death has gouged at him this deeply.

Gimli arrived in Minas Tirith the day before the ceremony to pay his respects to Arwen and her progeny. The beauty of the Evenstar is much changed from the days of their youth, though it is no less potent for that. Instead of being a rich tapestry of deep blues and browns and pale skin, the mortal Arwen Undomiel is as silver and shining as starlight, though she still twinkles that same deep blue.

Or, at least, she used to. Gimli grasped her slender hand when she came to greet him, and he felt naught but bones aching to be dust. He looked into the elegant lines of her lovely face, and he could read between them. He knew those eyes, which gazed upon him mostly without seeing. He recognized the current that underlined her every word.

Nobody needs to tell Gimli that the Queen of Gondor will not survive without her husband. She may be mortal now, but she still absorbs grief as the Elves do, and he knows better than to think there is any word or deed or tincture that can rescue one whose heart is so completely overrun. He will not be surprised if he is called back to Minas Tirith next month for her funeral.

Though it has been less than a year since he last saw Legolas, and decades since they have tolerated being apart for longer, he searches for the other with a will, driven by an urgency he does not take the time to name.

The Elf’s face is drawn, and his eyes are darkened with mourning, but he does not have the same look as the Evenstar. His shoulders are not rolled in under the weight of accumulated negativity, and his movements are not haunted with the threat of vacancy. Despite everything, Legolas stolidly remains himself.

The sight of him warms a part of Gimli that had gone cold without his notice.

When Legolas notices him, he moves on quick-flitting feet until he can gracefully sink to his knees for a proper embrace. They grip each other longer than they should, and even after Legolas pulls back, he grasps Gimli by the shoulders and bumps their foreheads together. It is still a poor imitation of the warrior’s greeting, and Legolas still clearly does not care. At this point, Gimli has come to recognize and cherish the gesture as something all its own.

And for a moment, one selfish moment, they breathe together. Little things like this have become more common as the years roll on, though cumulatively they still do not amount to much.

Afterwards, their eyes meet, and they exchange wordless agreement regarding the fate of the Queen. They share a silence for her. If any two people can understand the temptation to let yourself be consumed by emotions more powerful than you are, it is them.

**.:;;:.**

The next day, at the ceremony, Gimli and Legolas stand next to one another as they always have. The ceremonies of Men are typically a lot of blather and bloviation, but Elessar must have left a note about these proceedings, for this one is refreshingly brief and to the point. The new King Eldarion does an admirable job of officiating it, despite the lines of anguish on his face and the red-rimmed eyes of his kin behind him on the dais.

At Eldarion’s leave, citizens and dignitaries begin to mill about. Legolas does not join them, and so neither does Gimli.

Instead, Legolas clears his throat with a note of finality. “I have begun construction on a boat. It will be finished in approximately three months,” he informs Gimli, though what he needs a boat for when Ithilien is _landlocked_ is—

Oh.

“Aye,” Gimli says with a nod of understanding. The courtyard at the top of Minas Tirith is never warm, but it feels especially cold right now, as twin boulders made of ice and fear finally realized drop into the soles of his feet. “The time has finally come, then. You have had enough.”

His companion tilts his head to see Gimli’s expression, brows furrowed. He frowns as if he searches for something he cannot find. Without looking away, Legolas says, “I admit my ties to Middle-Earth are dwindling, and that is no small thing. However, that is not truly the reason.”

Then, and only then, does Legolas look out at the gathering of unfamiliar souls that surround them. They are all dressed in fine and finer garb than either of them could have wished for citizens of a prosperous Kingdom, right down to the last of the common folk. The late King Elessar has done well by them, and Eldarion has inherited an easy reign, one in which he needs only to maintain the status quo for his people to thrive.

It is then that Gimli finally understands—for is this not true for Ithilien and Aglarond, as well? Have they not built splendid and prosperous realms for their people to proudly call home?

King Elessar died suddenly in his sleep, with no sickness or precursor to speak of; there is a reason they were able to make their arrangements and travel to Minas Tirith with such short notice, and it is not a lifelong fondness for a Man they might have died fighting alongside more than a century before. Their fondness is _why_ they are here, but not _how_.

They have strong, admirable legacies, Gimli and Legolas. They are the only remaining Nine Walkers to still walk upon Arda’s soil. They each raised successful and self-sustaining settlements up from nothing. They have repaired and soothed the enmity between their people to the point where it is common for the newest generations of each to befriend one another without fear or question, and relations are getting better all the time.

Gimli has not thought of their time in Fangorn for decades, but he remembers it now, as he can see Legolas clearly is. He remembers their ambitions, and what they set aside so that they could better serve their people and this world.

Have they not each accomplished what they set out to do? At this point, have they not earned the right to something better than a handful of stolen moments and a winter of playing pretend?

The realization brings with it an overwhelming cavalcade of sentiment Gimli nearly forgot he had the capability to feel, so long have they been stuffed away, and away, and _away_ , for a mythical Someday he privately never expected to be realized. The monumental force of it all finally coming to the blinding light of day has his throat cinching around an aching wad of emotion, and heat stinging the backs of his eyes. It nearly sweeps him off his feet, too, and only the grace of his inherent connection to the good, solid stone under his boots keeps him steady.

Well, that and the hand he braces on Legolas.

His companion needs no further prompting. Long, calloused fingers curl over the breadth of his shoulder. There is a warmth growing from Legolas, like the tiniest of embers cradled amongst the ashes, the sort smiths leave in their forges at the end of the day so that starting the flames on the morrow is easier. The sort that is fated to be fed and grow strong, for that is why it exists.

_I am here,_ it says. _I am with you_.

With his voice, Legolas speaks softly. “What say you, _mellon_ , to one more adventure?”

His voice is a sweet embrace, and the way he says _mellon_ surpasses every sacred and heartfelt endearment in any language Gimli has ever known.

Gimli lifts his eyes to his life’s most poignant and precious connection, and Mahal save him, but there is no fight left in him anymore. Not against this beautiful, patient soul who—against all odds—desires nothing but him and whatever time he has left. Warmth and adoration surge within him hard, threaten to overtake him completely.

Legolas gifts him a similarly fragile look and squeezes his shoulder with an unsteady hand. He understands, just as he always has.

No, there is nothing left to do but give in and melt into the warmth standing beside him.

Gimli reaches up to curl his fingers around a strong, slender wrist—and, for the first time in his life, he gives in to the desire that has always been there. It takes more effort than it should to allow his white-whiskered cheek to lean upon the hand that touches him, but he does. He _does_ , and he is welcomed by a tiny, gentle caress, hidden amidst the volume of his beard. No one around them would notice, even if they cared enough to look—but Gimli knows. He knows, and Legolas knows, and to have even that small touch is dear enough to make a lifetime of longing worth the while.

With a single, quavering breath, Gimli clears from his head the cobwebs of decades of duty and paving easier roads for new generations to follow without being outcast or hurt.

“I say: give me two days to make the announcement. Ghríc does most everything now, anyway, so it shall merely be a formality. And then—”

The words catch in on the back of his tongue as so many decades of proprieties rise to quell him. For an instant Gimli relents to those old habits, closing his eyes and resigning himself to the pain of progress built on the back of his own censorship.

“And then, _mellon-nîn?”_ asks Legolas. His voice is as soft as the single knuckle that traces Gimli’s cheek.

Gimli lifts his head, and gazing back at him is one-hundred-and-twenty-two-years’ worth of unrestrained affection and tenderness. Gazing back at him is his own heart.

In that gaze, Gimli finds the strength to finally, _finally_ say it aloud.

“And then I am yours.”


End file.
